UC-NRLF 


B    3    SMb    7^6 


2T^ 

|      828Kn.;..hs;.v 


6fe 


~Dkh   OloL  W2U  IjAJL- 


POEMS 


JOHN   RUSKIN, 


COLLECTED    AND    EDITED    RV 


JAMES   OSBORKE   WRIGHT. 


NEW   YORK  : 

JOHN    WILEY  &   SONS. 

188G. 


Copyright,  1882, 

By  JOHN  WILEY  &  SOSS. 
$6  <Z>6*> 


PREFACE 


The  poems  collected  in  the  following  pages  have  been 
printed  from  the  original  published  copies,  great  care 
having  been  taken  to  follow  the  author's  text,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  certain  needed  changes  in  the  orthography. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  all  of  Ruskin's  verse-making 
was  confined  to  his  youthful  days,  and  was  for  the  most 
part  dated  from  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  over  the  initials 
J.  R.  The  first  poem,  "Saltzburg,"  was  written  in  the 
authors  sixteenth  year,  the  last  "The  Glacier"  but  eleven 
years  later.  "  The  Broken  Chain  "  was  appropriately  pub- 
lished at  intervals — the  first  two  parts  appearing  in  1840, 
the  third  in  1841,  the  fourth  in  1842,  and  the  fifth  and  last 
part  in  the  year  following. 

All  of  these  poems,  with  the  exception  of  "  Salsette  and 

Elephanta,"  were  published  in  the  Annuals  so  popular  during 

England's  golden-age  of  steel  engraving,  but  no  collection 

was  made  until  1850,  when  the  author  issued  a  privately 

iii 


IV  PREFACE. 

printed  edition,  of  such  limited  number,  that  copies  have 
become  virtually  inaccessible  except  to  the  most  rabid  bib- 
liomaniac,   whose  heavy  purse  enables  him  to  successfully 

outbid  competitors  in  the  auction  room  and  bookstore.* 

To  those  who  appreciate  the  intense  personality  of  the 
author,  these  verses  will  afford  much  insight  into  his  char- 
acter. The  weird  and  somewhat  melancholy  train  of 
thought  which  pervades  all  of  his  poetry  is  certainly  re- 
markable, when  we  consider  that  it  was  written  at  an  age 
thai  is  popularly  supposed  to  be  under  the  influence  of 
rose-colored  visions  rather  than  the  grim  churchyard  aspect 
which  pervades  every  line  of  these  metrical  effusions  of  the 
autocratic  art-critic. 

*  Two  years  ago  a  copy  sold  by  auction,  in  London,  for  41  guineas. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Saltzburg 1 

Fragments. — Andernacht. — St.  Goar 4 

TnE  Months 7 

The  Last  Smile 9 

Song 10 

Spring 11 

The  Scythian  Grave 13 

Remembrance 17 

Christ  Church,  Oxford 19 

Aristodemus  at  Plat.ea 21 

Salsette  and  Elephanta. — A  Prize  Poem , 24 

A  Scythian  Banquet  Song 41 

The  Scythian  Guest 62 

The  Broken  Chain 75 

The   Tears  of  Psammenitus 169 

The  Two  Paths 181 

v 


vi  CONTEXTS. 

PAGE 

The  Old  Water-Wheel 184 

TnE  Departed  Lights 186 

Agoxia 188 

Tm:  Last  Song  of  Ariox 190 

The  Bills  of  Carrara 203 

Tm:  Battle  of  Moxtexotte 206 

A  Walk  ix  Chamouki 220 

/  TnE  Old  Seam  ax 226 

The  Alps 230 

The  Basses  Alps 232 

The  Glacier ~'A 

The  Recreant 235 

The  Wreck 238 


SALTZBURG. 

Ox  Salza's  quiet  tide  the  westering  sun 

Gleams  mildly  ;  and  the  lengthening  shadows  dun, 

Chequered  with  ruddy  streaks  from  spire  and  roof, 

Begin  to  weave  fair  twilight's  mystic  woof, 

Till  the  dim  tissue,  like  a  gorgeous  veil, 

Wraps  the  proud  city,  in  her  beauty  pale. 

A  minute  since,  and  in  the  rosy  light 

Dome,  casement,  spire,  were  glowing  warm  and  bright  ; 

A  minute  since,  St.  Rupert's  stately  shrine, 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  many  a  Hartzwald  mine,* 

Flung  back  the  golden  glow  ;  now,  broad  and  vast, 

The  shadows  from  yon  ancient  fortress  cast, 


•  The  dome  of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Hubert  is  covered  with  copper  ; 
and  there  are  many  altars  and  shrines  in  the  interior  constructed  of 
different  sorts  of  marble,  brought  from  quarries  in  the  vicinity.  St. 
Hubert,  to  whom  the  Cathedral  is  dedicated,  was  by  birth  a  Scotch- 
man. 


SALTZBURG. 


Like  the  dark  grasp  of  ^ome  barbaric  power, 
Their  leaden  empire  stretch  o'er  roof  and  tower. 


Sweet  is  the  twilight  hour  by  Salza's  strand, 
Though  no  Arcadian  visions  grace  the  land  : 
Wakes  not  a  sound,  that  floats  not  sweetly  by, 
While  day's  last  beams  upon  the  landscape  die  ; 
Low  chants  the  fisher  where  the  waters  pour, 
And  murmuring  voices  melt  along  the  shore  ; 
The  plash  of  waves  comes  softly  from  the  side 
Of  passing  barge  slow  gliding  o'er  the  tide  ; 
And  there  arc  sounds  from  city,  field,  and  hill, 
Shore,  forest,  flood  ;  yet  mellow  all  and  still. 

But  change  we  now  the  scene,  ere  night  descend, 
And  through  St.  Rupert's  massive  portal  wend. 
Full  many  a  shrine,  bedeckt  with  sculpture  quaint 
Of  Bteel-clad  knight  and  legendary  saint  : 
Full  many  an  altar,  where  the  incense-cloud 
Rose  with  the  pealing  anthem,  deep  and  loud; 


SALTZBURG. 

And  pavements  worn  before  each  marble  fane 
By  knees  devout — (ah  !  bent  not  all  in  vain  !) 
There  greet  the  gaze  ;  with  statues,  richly  wrought, 
And  noble  paintings,  from  Ausonia  brought, — 
Planned  by  those  master  minds  whose  memory  stands 
The  grace,  the  glory,  of  their  native  lands. 
As  the  hard  granite,  'midst  some  softer  stone, 
Starts  from  the  mass,  unbuttressed  and  alone. 
And  proudly  rears  its  iron  strength  for  aye, 
"While  crumbling  crags  around  it  melt  away  ; 
So  midst  the  ruins  of  long  eras  gone, 
Creative  Genius  holds  his  silent  throne, — 
While  lesser  lights  grow  dim, — august,  sublime, 
Gigantic  looming  o'er  the  gulfs  of  Time  ! 


FRAGMENTS 

FROM   A   METRICAL   JOURNAL. 

Andernacht. 
Twilight's  mists  are  gathering  grey 
Round  us  on  our  winding  way  ; 
Yet  the  mountain's  purple  crest 
Reflects  the  glories  of  the  west. 
Rushing  on  with  giant  force, 
Rolls  the  Rhine  his  glorious  course  ; 
Flashing,  now,  with  flamy  red. 
O'er  his  jagg'd  hasaltic  bed  ; 
Now,  with  current  calm  and  wide, 
Sweeping  round  the  mountain's  side  ; 
Ever  noble,  proud,  and  free, 
Flowing  in  his  majesty. 
Soon  upon  the  evening  skies 
Andernacht's  grim  ruins  rise  ; 


ANDEENACHT. 


Buttress,  battlement  and  tower, 

Remnants  hoar  of  Roman  power. 

Monuments  of  Caesar's  sway, 

Piecemeal  mouldering  away. 

Lo,  together  loosely  thrown, 

Sculptured  head  and  lettered  stone  ; 

Guardless  now  the  arch-way  steep 

To  rampart  huge  and  frowning  keep  ; 

The  empty  moat  is  gay  with  flowers, 

The  night-wind  whistles  through  the  towers, 

And,  flapping  in  the  silent  air, 

The  owl  and  bat  are  tenants  there. 


St  Goar. 

Past  a  rock  with  frowning  front, 
Wrinkled  by  the  tempest's  brunt, 
By  the  Rhine  we  dowmward  bore 
Upon  the  village  of  St.  Goar. 
Bosomed  deep  among  the  hills, 
Here  old  Rhine  his  current  stills. 


ST.    GOAR. 

Loitering  the  banks  between, 
As  if,  enamored  of  the  scene, 
He  had  forgot  his  onward  way 
For  a  live-long  summer  day. 
Grim  the  crags  through  whose  dark  cleft, 
Behind,  he  hath  a  passage  reft  ; 
While,  gaunt  as  gorge  of  hunted  boar, 
Dark  yawns  the  foaming  pass  before, 
Where  the  tormented  waters  rage, 
Like  demons  in  their  Stygian  cage, 
In  giddy  eddies  whirling  round 
With  a  sullen  choking  sound  ; 
Or  flinging  far  the  scattering  spray. 
O'er  the  peaked  rocks  that  bar  his  way. 
— No  marvel  that  the  spell-bound  Rhine, 
Like  giant  overcome  with  wine, 
Should  here  relax  his  angry  frown. 
And,  soothed  to  slumber,  lay  him  down 
Amid  the  vine-clad  banks  that  lave, 
Their  tresses  in  his  placid  wave. 


THE    MONTHS. 

I. 

From  your  high  dwellings  in  the  realms  of  snow 

And  cloud,  where  many  an  avalanche's  fall 
Is  heard  resounding  from  the  mountain's  brow, 

Come,  ye  cold  winds,  at  January's  call, 
On  whistling  wings,  and  with  white  flakes  bestrew 

The  earth,  till  February's  reign  restore 
The  race  of  torrents  to  their  wonted  flow, 

Whose  waves  shall  stand  in  silent  ice  no  more  ; 
But,  lashed  by  March's  maddened  winds,  shall  roar 
With  voice  of  ire,  and  beat  the  rocks  on  every  shore. 

II. 

Bow  down  your  heads,  ye  flowers  in  gentle  guise, 

Before  the  dewy  rain  that  April  sheds, 
Whose  sun  shines  through  her  clouds  with  quick  surprise, 

Shedding  soft  influences  on  your  heads ; 


8  THE   MONTHS. 

And  wreathe  ye  round  the  rosy  month  that  flies 

To  scatter  perfumes  in  the  path  of  June  ; 
Till  July's  sun  upon  the  mountains  rise 

Triumphant,  and  the  wan  and  weary  moon 
Mingle  her  cold  beams  with  the  burning  lume 
That  Sirius  shoots  through  all  the  dreary  midnight  gloom. 

in. 
Rejoice  !  ye  fields,  rejoice  !  and  wave  with  gold, 

When  August  round  her  precious  gifts  is  flinging; 
Lo  !  the  crushed  wain  is  slowly  homeward  rolled: 

Tlie  sunburnt  reapers  jocund  lays  are  singing; 
September's  steps  her  juicy  stores  unfold, 

If  I  he  Spring  blossoms  have  not  blushed  in  vain: 
October's  foliage  yellows  with  his  cold: 

In  rattling  showers  dark  November's  rain. 
From  every  stormy  cloud,  descends  amain. 
Till  keen  December's  snows  close  up  the  year  again 


THE   LAST   SMILE. 

She  sat  beside  me  yesternight, 

With  lip,  and  eye,  so  blandly  smiling 
So  full  of  soul,  of  life,  of  light, 

So  sweetly  my  lorn  heart  beguiling, 
That  she  had  almost  made  me  gay — 
Had  almost  charmed  the  thought  away— 
(Which,  like  the  poisoned  desert  wi^d, 
Came  sick  and  heavy  o'er  my  mind) — 
That  memory  soon  mine  all  would  be, 
And  she  would  smile  no  more  for  me. 


SONG. 

[From  Leoni,  a  Romance  of  Italy.] 

Full,  broad,  and  bright,  is  the  silver  light 
Of  moon  and  stars  on  flood  and  fell ; 

But  in  my  breast  is  starless  night, 
For  I  am  come  to  say  farewell. 

How  glad,  how  swift,  was  wont  to  be 

The  step  that  bore  me  back  to  thee; 

Now  coldly  comes  upon  my  heart 

The  meeting  that  is  but  to  part. 

I  do  not  ask  a  tear,  but  while 

I  linger  where  I  must  not  stay, 
Oh,  give  me  but  a  parting  smile. 

To  light  me  on  my  lonely  way. 

To  shine  a  brilliant  beacon  star, 

To  my  reverted  glance,  afar. 

Through  midnight,  which  can  have  no  morrow, 

O'er  the  dee}),  silent,  surge  of  sorrow. 

10 


SPRING. 

Infakt  Spirit  of  the  Spring ! 
On  thy  fresh-plumed  pinion,  bring 
Snow-drops  like  thy  stainless  brow — 
Violet,  primrose— cull  them  now, 
With  the  cup  of  daffodil, 
Which  the  fairies  love  to  fill, ^ 
Ere  each  moon-dance  they  renew, 
With  the  fragrant  honey  dew; 
Bring  them,  Spirit !— bring  them  hither 
Ere  the  wind  have  time  to  wither  ; 
Or  the  sun  to  steal  their  dyes, 
To  paint,  at  eve,  the  western  skies. 
Bring  them  for  the  wreath  of  one- 
Fairest,  best,  that  Time  hath  known. 

Infant  Spirit !  dreams  have  told 

Of  thy  golden  hours  of  old, 

II 


12  SPRING. 

When  the  amaranth  was  flung 

O'er  creation  bright  and  young  ; 

When  the  wind  had  sweeter  sound 

Than  holiest  lute-string  since  hath  found  ; 

When  the  sigh  of  angels  sent 
Fragrance  through  the  firmament  : 
Then  thy  glorious  gifts  were  she  d 
O'er  full  many  a  virgin  head  : 
Of  those  forms  of  beauty,  none 
Gladden  now  this  earth,  save  one  ! 
Hither,  then,  thy  blossoms  bring, 
Infant  Spirit  of  the  Spring  ! 


THE   SCYTHIAN  GRAVE. 

The  following  stanzas  refer  to  some  peculiar  and  affecting  cus- 
toms of  the  Scythians,  as  avouched  by  Herodotus  (Melpomone  71), 
relative  to  the  burial  of  their  kings,*  round  whose  tombs  they  were 
wont  to  set  up  a  troop  of  fifty  skeleton  scarecrows — armed  corpses — in 
a  manner  very  horrible,  barbarous  and  indecorous  ;  besides  sending  out 
of  the  world  to  keep  the  king  company,  numerous  cup-bearers,  grooms, 
lackeys,  coachmen,  and  cooks ;  all  which  singular,  and,  to  the  individuals 
concerned,  somewhat  objectionable  proceedings  appear  to  have  been  the 
result  of  a  feeling,  pervading  the  whole  nation,  of  the  poetical  and 
picturesque. 

I. 

They  laid  the  lord 

Of  all  the  land 
Within  his  grave  of  pride  ; 

They  set  the  sword 

Beside  the  hand 
That  could  not  grasp  nor  guide  ; 


*  These  are  the  kings  to  whom  the  prophecies  in  the  Old  Testament 
refer  :— "They  shall  go  down  to  the  grave  with  their  weapons  of  war, 
though  they  were  a  terror  to  the  mighty  in  the  land  of  the  living." 

13 


14  TIIE    SCYTHIAN    GRAVE. 

They  left  to  soothe  and  share  his  rest 

Beneath  the  moveless  mould, 
A  lady,  bright  as  those  that  live, 
But  oh  !  how  calm  and  cold  ! 
They  left  to  keep  due  watch  and  ward, 
Thick  vassals  round  their  slumbering  lord- 
Ranged  in  menial  order  all — 
They  may  hear,  when  he  can  call. 


n. 


They  built  a  mound 

Above  the  breast 
Whose  haughty  heart  was  still ; 

Each  stormy  sound 

That  wakes  the  west, 
Howls  o'er  that  lonely  hill. 
Underneath  an  armed  troop 

In  stalwart  order  stay  ; 
Flank  to  flank  they  stand,  nor  stoop 

Their  lances,  dnv  by  day, 


THE   SCYTHIAN   GRAVE.  15 

Round  the  dim  sepulchral  cliff 

Horsemen  fifty,  fixed  and  stiff — 

Each  with  his  bow,  and  each  with  his  brand, 

With  his  bridle  grasped  in  his  steadfast  hand. 


in. 


The  soul  of  sleep 

May  dim  the  brow, 

And  check  the  soldier's  tread* 

But  who  can  keep 

A  guard  so  true, 
As  do  the  dark-eyed  dead  ? 
The  foul  hyena's  howl  and  haunt 

About  their  charnel  lair  ; 
The  flickering  rags  of  flesh  they  flaunt 

Within  the  plague-struck  air. 
But  still  the  skulls  do  gaze  and  grin, 
Though  the  worms  have  gnawed  the  nerves  within. 
And  the  jointed  toes,  and  the  fleshless  heel 
Clatter  and  clank  in  their  stirrup  of  steel. 


16  THE   SCYTHIAN    GRAVE. 

IV. 

The  snows  are  swift, 

That  glide  bo  pale 
Along  the   mountain  dim  ; 

Beneath  their  drift 

Shall  rust  the  mail, 
And  blanch  the  nerveless  limb  : 
While  shower  on  shower,  and  wreath  on  wreath, 

From  vapours  thunder-scarred,* 
Surround  the  misty  mound  of  death 

And  wh-dm  its  ghastly  guard  ; 
Till  those  who  held  the  earth  in  fear, 
Lie  meek,  and  mild,  and  powerless  here, 
Without  a  single  sworded  slave 
To  keep  their  name,  or  guard  their  grave. 

*  It  ia  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  climate,  according  to  Herodotus 
that  it  thunders  in  the  winter,  not  in  the  summer. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

I  ought  to  be  joyful,  the  jest  and  the  song 

And  the  light  tones  of  music  resound  through  the  throng 

But  its  cadence  falls  dully  and  dead  on  my  ear, 

And  the  laughter  I  mimic  is  quenched  in  a  tear. 


For  here  is  no  longer,  to  bid  me  rejoice, 
The  light  of  thy  smile,  or  the  tone  of  thy  voice, 
And,  gay  though  the  crowd  that's  around  me  may  be, 
I  am  alone,  when  I'm  parted  from  thee. 

Alone,  said  I,  dearest  ?  0,  never  we  part, — 

For  ever,  for  ever,  thou'rt  here  in  my  heart : 

Sleeping  or  waking,  where'er  I  may  be, 

I  have  but  one  thought,  and  that  thought  is  of  thee. 

17 


18  kj:membrax<  e. 

When  the  ])lanets  roll  red  through  the  darkness  of  night. 
When  the  morning  bedews  all  the  landscape  with  light. 
When  the  high  sun  of  noon-day  is  warm  on  the  hill, 
And  the  breezes  arc  quiet,  the  green  leafage  still ; 


I  love  to  look  out  o'er  the  earth  and  the  sky, 
For  nature  is  kind,  and  seems  lonely  as  1  ; 
Whatever  in  nature  most  lovely  I  see, 
Has  a  voice  that  recalls  the  remembrance  of  thee. 


Remember — remember.     Those  only  can  know 
How  dear  is  remembrance,  whose  hope  is  laid  low  ; 
'Tis  like  clouds  in  the  west,  that  are  gorgeous  still. 
When  the  dank  dews  of  evening  fall  deadly  and  chill. 


Like  the  bow  in  the  cloud  that  is  painted  so  bright, — 
Like  the  voice  of  the  nightingale,  heard  through  the  night, 
Oh,  sweet  ie  remembrance,  most  sad  though  it  be. 
For  remembrance  is  all  that  remaineth  for  me. 


CHRIST  CHURCH,  OXFORD. 

NIGHT. 

Faint  from  the  bell  the  ghastly  echoes  fall, 

That  grates  within  the  gray  cathedral  tower ; 
Let  me  not  enter  through  the  portal  tall, 

Lest  the  strange  spirit  of  the  moonless  hour 
Should  give  a  life  to  those  pale  people,  who 
Lie  in  their  fretted  niches,  two  and  two, 
Each  with  .his  head  on  pillowy  stone  reposed, 
And  his  hands  lifted,  and  his  eyelids  closed. 

From  many  a  mouldering  oriel,  as  to  flout, 
Its  pale,  grave  brow  of  ivy-tressed  stone, 

Comes  the  incongruous  laugh,  and  revel  shout- 
Above,  some  solitary  casement,  thrown 

Wide  open  to  the  wavering  night  wind, 

Admits  its  chill,  so  deathful,  yet  so  kind, 


10 


20  CHRIST    CHURCH,    OXFORD. 

Unto  the  fevered  brow  and  fiery  eye 

Of  one,  whose  night  hour  passeth  sleeplessly. 

Ye  melancholy  chambers  !     I  could  shun 

The  darkness  of  your  silence,  with  such  fear, 

As  places  where  slow  murder  had  been  done. 
How  many  noble  spirits  have  died  here, 

Withering  away  in  yearnings  to  aspire, 

Gnawed  by  mocked  hope — devoured  by  their  own  fire  ! 

Methinks  the  grave  must  feel  a  colder  bed 

To  spirits  such  as  these,  than  unto  common  dead. 


ARLSTODEMUS  AT  PLAT^EA. 

[Of  two  Spartans  who  were  prevented  by  illness  from  taking  part  in 
the  battle  of  Thermopylae,  and  who  were,  in  consequence,  degraded  to 
the  level  of  helots,  one,  unable  to  endure  the  scorn  of  his  countrymen, 
killed  himself  ;  the  other,  by  name  Aristodemus,  waited,  and  when,  at 
the  battle  of  Plata:a,  thirty-three  thousand  allied  Greeks  stood  to  receive 
the  final  and  desperate  attack  of  three  hundred  thousand  chosen 
Asiatics,  and  the  Spartans,  unused  to  Persian  arms,  hung  slightly  back, 
he  charged  alone,  and,  calling  to  his  countrymen  to  "follow  the 
coward, "  broke  the  enemy's  mass,  and  was  found,  when  the  victorious 
Greeks  who  followed  him  had  laid  two  hundred  thousand  of  their  enemy 
dead  on  the  field,  lying  on  a  low  hillock,  with  his  face  turned  up  to 
heaven,  a  group  of  the  Persian  nobles  lying  slaughtered  around  him. 
He  was  refused  the  honors  of  burial,  because,  it  was  said,  he  was  only 
courageous  in  despair.] 

Ye  have  darkened  mine  honor  and  branded  my  name, 
Ye  have  quenched  its  remembrance  in  silence  and  shame. 
Yet  the  heart  ye  call  craven,  unbroken,  hath  borne 
The  voice  of  your  anger,  the  glance  of  your  scorn. 

But  the  life  that  hath  lingered  is  now  in  mine  hand,* 
My  waiting  was  but  for  a  lot  of  the  land, 


1  Sam.  xxviii.  21,  Job  xiii.  14. 

21 


22  ARISTUDEMUS   AT   PLAT.EA. 

Which  his  measure,  who  ruleth  the  battle  array, 
May  mete  for  your  best  and  your  bravest  to-day. 

My  kinsmen,  my  brothers,  your  phalanx  is  fair, 
There's  a  shield,  as  I  think,  that  should  surely  be  there ; 
Ye  have  darkened  its  disk,  and  its  hour  hath  drawn  near 
To  be  reared  as  a  trophy  or  borne  as  a  bier.* 

What  said  I  ?    Alas,  though  the  foe  in  his  flight, 
Should  quit  me  unspoiled  on  the  held  of  the  fight, 
Ye  would  leave  me  to  lie,  with  no  hand  to  inurn, 
For  the  dog  to  devour,  or  the  stranger  to  spurn  ! 

What  matter  ?    Attendants  my  slumber  shall  grace, 
With  blood  on  the  breast,  and  with  fear  on  the  face  ; 
And  Sparta  may  own  that  the  death  hath  atoned 
For  the  crime  of  the  cursed,  whose  life  she  disowned. 

*[If  his  body  were  obtained  by  the  enemy  it  would  be  reared  as  a 
trophy.  If  recovered  by  his  friends,  borne  as  a  bier,  unless,  as  he  im- 
mediately called  to  mind,  they  should  deny  him  funeral  honors.] 


ARISTODEJIUS   AT   PLATTE  A.  23 

By  the  banks  of  Eurotas  her  maidens  shall  meet, 
And  her  mountains  rejoice  in  the  fall  of  your  feet ; 
And  the  cry  of  your  conquest  be  lofty  and  loud, 
O'er  the  lengthened  array  of  the  shield  or  the  shroud. 

And  the  fires  of  the  grave  shall  empurple  the  air, 
When  they  lick  the  white  dust  of  the  bones  ye  shall  bear ; 
The  priest  and  the  people,  at  altar  and  shrine, 
Shall  worship  their  manes,  disdainful  of  mine. 

Yet  say  that  they  fought  for  the  hopes  of  their  breast, 
For  the  hearts  that  had  loved  them,  the  lips  that  had  blessed  ; 
For  the  roofs  that  had  covered,  the  country  that  claimed, 
The  sires  that  had  named  them,  the  sons  they  had  named. 

And  say  that  I  fought  for  the  land  of  the  free, 

Though  its  bosom  of  blessing  beat  coldly  for  me  ; 

For  the  lips  that  had  cursed  me,  the  hearts  that  had  scorned, 

And  the  desolate  hope  of  the  death  unadorned. 


SALSETTE   AND  ELEPHAXTA. 
A  PRIZE  POEM. 


"  Religio. . .  .pedibus  subjecta  vicissim 
Obteritur.     Nos  exaequat  victoria  ccelo." 

— Lucretius. 

'Tis  eve — and  o'er  the  face  of  parting  day 
Quick  smiles  of  summer  lightning  flit  and  play  ; 
In  pulses  of  broad  light,  less  seen  than  felt, 
They  mix  in  heaven,  and  on  the  mountains  melt ; 
Their  silent  transport  fills  the  exulting  air — 
'Tis  eve,  and  where  is  evening  half  so  fair  ? 
Oli  !  deeply,  softly  sobs  the  Indian  sea 
O'er  thy  dark  sands,  majestic  Dharavee,* 
When,  from  each  purple  hill  and  polished  lake, 
The  answering  voices  of  the  night  awake 
The  fitful  note  of  many  a  brilliant  bird, — 
The  lizard's  plunge,  o'er  distant  waters  heard. — 

*  The  southern  promontory  of  the  island  of  Salsette. 

24 


SALSETTE   AND   ELEPHANTA.  25 

The  thrill  of  forest  leaves — how  soft,  how  swift 

That,  floats  and  follows  where  the  night-winds  drift ; 

Or,  piercing  through  the  calmness  of  the  sky, 

The  jungle  tigers  sharp  and  sudden  cry. 

Yet  all  is  peace,  for  these  weak  voices  tell 

How  deep  the  calm  they  break  but  not  dispel. 

The  twilight  heaven  rolls  on,  like  some  deep  stream 

When  breezes  break  not  on  its  moving  dream  ; 

Its  trembling  stars  continual  watches  keep 

And  pause  above  Canarah's  haunted  steep  ;* 

Each  in  its  path  of  first  ascension  hid 

Behind  the  height  of  that  pale  pyramid, — 

(The  strength  of  nations  hewed  the  basalt  spire,  f 

And  barbed  its  rocks  like  sacrificial  fire. ) 

Know  they  the  hour's  approach,  whose  fateful  flight 

Was  watched  of  yore  from  yonder  cloudless  height  ? 

Lone  on  its  utmost  peak,  the  Prophet  Priest 

Beheld  the  night  unfolded  from  the  East ; 

*  The  central  peak  of  Salsette. 

f  M.  Anguetil  du  Perron,  in  his  accounts  of  Canarah,  says  that  its 
peak  appears  to  have  been  hewn  to  a  point  by  human  art  as  an  emblem 
of  the  solar  ray. 


26  SALSETTE   AND   ELEPHANTA. 

In  prescient  awe  perused  its  blazing  scroll, 
And  read  the  records  stretched  from  Pole  to  Pole  ; 
And  though  their  eyes  are  dark,  their  lips  are  still, 
"Who  watched  and  Worshipped  on  Canarah's  hill, 
Wild  superstition's  visionary  power 
Still  rules  and  fills  the  spirit  of  the  hour  : 
The  Indian  maiden,  through  the  scented  grove, 
Seeks  the  dim  shore,  and  lights  the  lamp  of  love  ; 
The  pious  peasant,  awe-struck  and  alone, 
With  radiant  garland  crowns  the  purple  stone,* 
And  shrinks,  returning  through  the  star-lit  glade, 
When  breezes  stir  the  peepul's  sacred  shade  ;  f 
For  well  his  spirit  knows  the  deep  appeal 
That  love  must  mourn  to  miss,  yet  fear  to  feel  ; 
Low  sounds,  faint  rays,  upon  the  senses  shed — 
The  voices  of  the  lost,  the  dark  eyes  of  the  dead. 

•  "A  stone  painted  with  red,  and  placed  at  the  foot  of  their  favorite 
tree,  is  sufficient  to  call  forth  the  devotion  of  the  poor,  who  bring  to 
it  flowers  and  simple  offerings."— J.  S.  Buckingham. 

f  The  superstitious  feeling  of  the  Indian  with  respect  to  the  peepul- 
tree  is  well  known.  Its  shade  is  supposed  to  be  loved  and  haunted  by 
the  dead. 


SALSETTE   AND   ELEPHANT  A.  27 

How  awful  now,  when  night  and  silence  brood 

O'er  Earth's  repose  and  Ocean's  solitude, 

To  trace  the  dim  and  devious  paths  that  guide 

Along  Canarah's  steep  and  craggy  side, 

Where,  girt  with  gloom — inhabited  by  fear, — 

The  mountain  homes  of  India's  gods  appear  ! 

Eange  above  range  they  rise,  each  hollow  cave 

Darkling  as  death,  and  voiceless  as  the  grave  ; 

Save  that  the  waving  weeds  iu  each  recess 

With  rustling  music  mock  its  loneliness  ; 

And  beasts  of  blood  disturb,  with  stealthy  tread, 

The  chambers  of  the  breathless  and  the  dead. 

All  else  of  life,  of  worship,  past  away, 

The  ghastly  idols  fall  not,  nor  decay  ; 

Retain  the  lip  of  scorn,  the  rugged  frown  ; 

And  grasp  the  blunted  sword  and  useless  crown  ; 

Their  altars  desecrate,  their  names  untold, 

The  hands  that  formed,  the  hearts    that  feared — how 

cold  ! 
Thou  too — dark  Isle  !  whose  shadow  on  the  sea 
Lies  like  the  gloom  that  mocks  our  memory 


28  SALSETTE   AND   ELEPHANTA. 

When  one  bright  instant  of  our  former  lot 
"Were  grief,  remembered,  but  were  guilt,  forgot. 
Rock  of  the  lonely  crest  !  how  oft  renewed 
Have  beamed  the  summers  of  thy  solitude, 
Since  first  the  myriad  steps  that  shook  thy  shore 
Grew  frail  and  few — then  paused  for  evermore  ! 
Answer- -ye  long-lulled  echoes  !     Where  are  they 
Who  clove  your  mountains  with  the  shafts  of  day  ; 
Bade  the  swift  life  along  their  marble  fly, 
And  struck  their  darkness  into  deity. 
Nor  claimed  from  thee— pale  temple  of  the  wave — 
Record  or  rest,  a  glory  or  a  grave  ? 
Now  all  are  cold — the  votary  as  his  god, — 
And  by  the  shrine  he  feared,  the  courts  he  trod, 
The  livid  snake  extends  his  glancing  trail, 
And  lifeless  murmurs  mingle  on  the  gale. 

Yet  glorious  still,  though  void,  though  desolate, 
Proud  Dharapori  !  *  gleams  thy  mountain  gate, 

*  The  Indian  name  for  Elephanta.- 


SALSETTE   AKD   ELEPHANTA.  29 

What  time,  emergent  from  the  eastern  wave, 

The  keen  moon's  crescent  lights  thy  sacred  cave  ; 

And  moving  beams  confuse,  with  shadowy  change, 

Thy  columns'  massive  might  and  endless  range. 

Far,  far  beneath,  where  sable  waters  sleep, 

Those  radiant  pillars  pierce  the  crystal  deep, 

And  mocking  waves  reflect,  with  quivering  smile, 

Their  long  recession  of  refulgent  aisle  ;  * 

As,  where  Atlantis  hath  her  lonely  home, 

Her  grave  of  guilt,  beneath  the  ocean's  foam  ; 

Above  the  lifeless  hearth  and  guardless  gate, 

The  wildly-walking  surges  penetrate, 

And  sapphire  tints  of  phosphor  lightning  fall 

O'er  the  broad  pillar,  and  the  sculptured  wall. — 

So,  Dharapori  !  through  thy  cold  repose 

The  flooding  lustre  of  the  moonlight  flows  ; 

New  forms  of  fear,  f  by  every  touch  displayed, 

Gleam,  pale  and  passioned,  through  the  dreadful  shade, 

*  The  interior  of  Elephanta  is  usually  damp,  and  its  floor  covered  with 
water  two  or  three  feet  deep.  13y  moonlight  its  shallowness  would  be 
unperceived. 

f  The  sculptures  of  Elephanta  have  such  "horrible  and  fearful  formes 
that  they  make  a  man's  hayre  stande  upright." — Linschoten. 


30  SALSETTE   AND  ELEPHAKTA. 

In  wreathed  groups  of  dim,  distorted  life, 

In  ghastly  calmness,  or  tremendous  strife  ; 

"While  glaring  eye  and  grasping  hand  attest 

The  mocked  emotion  of  the  marble  breast. 

Thus  in  the  fevered  dream  of  restless  pain, 

Incumbent  horror  broods  upon  the  brain, 

Through  mists  of  blood  colossal  shapes  arise, 

Stretch  their  stiff  limbs,  and  roll  their  rayless  eyes. 

Yet  knew  not  here  the  chisel's  touch  to  trace 

The  finer  lineaments  of  form  and  face  ; 

No  studious  art  of  delicate  design 

Conceived  the  shape,  or  lingered  on  the  line. 

The  sculptor  learned,  on  Indus'  plains  afar, 

The  various  pomp  of  worship  and  of  war  ; 

Impetuous  ardor  in  his  bosom  woke, 

And  smote  the  animation  from  the  rock. 

In  close  battalions  kingly  forms  advance,* 

Ware  the  broad  shield,  and  shake  the  soundless  lance  ; 

*  "Some  of  these  figures  have  helmets  of  pyramidal  form  ;  others 
Wear  crowns  richly  decorated  with  jewels;  others  display  large  bushy 
ringlets  of  curled  or  flowing  hair.  In  their  hands  they  grasp  sceptres 
and  shields,  the  symbols  of  justice  and  the  ensigns  of  religion,  the  wea- 


SALSETTE   AND    ELEPHAXTA.  31 

With  dreadful  crests  adorned,  and  orient  gem, 
Lightens  the  helm  and  gleams  the  diadem  ; 
Loose  o'er  their  shoulders  falls  their  flowing  hair 
With  wanton  wave,  and  mocks  the  unmoving  air  ; 
Broad  o'er  their  breasts  extend  the  guardian  zones 
Broidered  with  flowers,  and  bright  with  mystic  stones ; 
Poised  in  setherial  march  they  seem  to  swim, 
Majestic  motion  marked  in  every  limb  ; 
In  changeful  guise  they  pass — a  lordly  train, 
Mighty  in  passion,  unsubdued  in  pain  ;  * 
Revered  as  monarchs,  or  as  gods  adored, 
Alternately  they  rear  the  sceptre  and  the  sword. 
Such  were  their  forms  and  such  their  martial  mien, 
Who  met  by  Indus'  shores  the  Assyrian  queen,  f 
"When,  with  reverted  force,  the  Indian  dyed 
His  javelin  in  the  pulses  of  her  pride, 

pons  of  war  and  the  trophies  of  peace." — Maurice,  Antiq.  of  India, 
vol.  ii.,  p.  145. 

*  Many  of  them  have  countenances  expressive  of  mental  suffering. 

f  Semiramis.  M  D'Ancarville  supposes  the  cave  to  have  been  ex- 
cavated by  her  army  ;  and  insists  on  the  similarity  between  the  costume 
of  the  sculptured  figures  and  that  of  her  Indian  adversaries. — See 
D'Ancarville,  vol.  i.,  p.  121. 


32  &AL8ETTE    AND    ELEPHAXTA. 

And  cast  in  cleath-heaps,  by  the  purple  flood, 
Her  strength  of  Babylonian  multitude. 

And  mightier  ones  arc  there — apart — divine, 

Presiding  genii  of  the  mountain  shrine  : 

Behold,  the  giant  group,  the  united  three, 

Faint  symbol  of  an  unknown  Deity  ! 

Here,  frozen  into  everlasting  trance, 

Stern  Siva's  quivering  lip  and  hooded  glance  ; 

There,  in  eternal  majesty  serene, 

Proud  Brahma's  painless  brow  and  constant  mien  ; 

There  glows  the  light  of  Veeshnu's  guardian  smile, 

But  on  the  crags  that  shade  yon  inmost  aisle 

Shine  not,  ye  stars  !     Annihilation's  lord  * 

There  waves,  with  many  an  arm,  the  unsated  sword. 

Relentless  holds  the  cup  of  mortal  pain, 

And  shakes  the  spectral  links  that    wreathe  his  ghastly 

chain. 
Oli,  could  these  lifeless  lips  be  taught  to  tell 
(Touched  by  Chaldean  art,  or  Aral)  spell) 

*  Alluding  to  a  Bculpture  representing  the  evil  principle  of  India  ; 

he  seems  engaged  in  human  sacrifice,  and  wears  a  necklace  of  skulls. 


SALSETTE   AND   ELEPHANTA.  33 

What  votaries  here  have  knelt,  what  victims  died, 
In  pangs,  their  gladness,  or  in  crimes,  their  pride, 
How  should  we  shun  the  awful  solitude, 
And  deem  the  intruding  footsteps  dashed  in  blood  ! 
How  might  the  altar-hearths  grow  warm  and  red, 
And  the  air  shadowy  with  avenging  dead  ! 
Behold  ! — he  stirs — that  cold,  colossal  king  ! — 
"Tis  hut  the  uncertain  shade  the  moonbeams  fling  ; 
Hark  !  a  stern  voice  awakes  with  sudden  thrill  ! — 
'Twas  but  the  wandering  wind's  precarious  will  : 
The  distant  echo  dies,  and  all  the  cave  is  still. 

Yet  Fancy,  floating  on  the  uncertain  light, 

Fills  with  her  crowded  dreams  the  course  of  night ; 

At  her  wild  will  sethereal  forms  appear, 

And  sounds,  long  silent,  strike  the  startled  ear  : 

Behold  the  dread  Mithratic  rite  reclaim  * 

Its  pride  of  ministers,  its  pomp  of  flame  ! 

*  Throughout  the  description  of  the  rites  of  Mithra,  I  have  followed 
Maurice,  whose  indefatigable  research  seems  almost  to  have  demon- 
strated the  extreme  antiquity,  at  least,  of  the  Elephanta  cavern,  as  well 
as  its  application  .to  the  worship  of  the  solar  orb,  and  of  fire.  For  a 
detailed  account  of  this  worship,  see  Maurice,  Indian  Antiq..,  vol.  ii., 
sec.  7. 


34  SALSETTE   AND   ELEPHAXTA. 

Along  the  winding  walls,  in  ordered  row, 

Flash  myriad  fires — the  fretted  columns  glow  ; 

Beaming  above  the  imitative  sky 

Extends  the  azure  of  its  canopy, 

Fairest  where  imaged  star  and  airy  sprite 

Move  in  swift  beauty  and  entrancing  light  ; 

A  golden  sun  reflected  lustre  flings, 

And  wandering  Dewtahs*  wave  their  crimson  wings  ; 

Beneath,  fed  richly  from  the  Arabian  urn, 

Undying  lamps  before  the  altar  burn  ; 

And  sleepless  eyes  the  sacred  sign  behold, 

The  spiral  orb  of  radiated  gold  ; 

On  this  the  crowds  of  deep  voiced  priests  attend, 

To  this  they  loudly  cry,  they  lowly  bend  ; 

O'er  their  wan  brows  the  keen  emotions  rise, 

And  pious  phrenzy  flashes  from  their  eyes  ; 

Phrenzy  in  mercy  sent,  in  torture  tried, 

Through  paths  of  death  their  only  guard  and  guide, 

*  Inferior  spirits  of  various  power  and  disposition,  holding  in  the 
Hindoo  mythology  the  place  of  angels.  They  appear  in  multitudes  on 
the  roof  of  the  Elephant*  cavern. 


SALSETTE  AND   ELEPHANTA.  35 

When,  in  dread  answer  to  their  youth's  appeal, 

Rose  the  red  fire  and  waved  the  restless  steel,* 

And  rushed  the  wintry  billow's  wildest  wreck, — 

Their  God  hath  called  them,  and  shall  danger  check  ? 

On — on — for  ever  on,  though  roused  in  wrath 

Glare  the  grim,  lion  on  their  lonely  path  ; 

Though,  starting  from  his  coiled  malignant  rest, 

The  deadly  dragon  lift  his  crimson  crest ; 

Though  corpse-like  shadows  round  their  footsteps  flock, 

And  shafts  of  lightning  cleave  the  incumbent  rock  ; 

On,  for  behold,  enduring  honors  wait 

To  grace  their  passage  through  the  golden  gate  ;  f 

Glorious  estate,  and  more  than  mortal  power, 

Succeed  the  dreadful  expiating  hour  ; 


*  Alluding  to  the  dreadful  ceremonies  of  initiation  which  the  priests 
of  Mithra  were  compelled  to  undergo,  and  which  seem  to  have  had  a 
close  correspondence  with  the  Eleusinian  mysteries.  See  Maurice, 
Antiq.  of  India,  vol.  v.  p.  620. 

f  The  sidereal  metempsychosis  was  represented  in  the  Mithratic  rites 
by  the  ascent  of  a  ladder,  on  which  there  were  seven  gates  :  the  first  of 
lead,  representing  Saturn  ;  the  second  of  tin,  Venus  ;  the  third  brass, 
Jupiter  ;  the  fourth  iron,  Mercury  ;  the  fifth  mixed,  Mars  ;  the  sixth 
silver,  the  Moon  ;  the  seventh  of  gold,  the  Sun. 


36  SALSETTE   AND   ELEPHANTA. 

Impurpled  robes  their  weary  limbs  enfold 
With  stars  enwoven,  and  stiff  with  heavenly  gold  ; 
The  mitra*  veils  their  foreheads,  rainbow-dyed, 
The  measured  steps  imperial  sceptres  guide  ; 
Glorious  they  move,  and  pour  upon  the  air 
The  cloud  of  incense  and  the  voice  of  prayer  ; 
While  through  the  hollow  vault,  around  them  rise 
Deep  echoes  from  the  couch  of  sacrifice, 
In  passioned  gusts  of  sound, — now  loud,  now  low, 
With  billowy  pause,  the  mystic  murmurs  flow 
Far  dwindling  on  the  breeze.     Ere  yet  they  die 
Canarah  hears,  and  all  his  peaks  reply ; 
His  crested  chasms  the  vocal  winds  explore, 
Waste  on  the  deep,  and  wander  on  the  shore. 
Above,  the  starry  gloom  is  thrilled  with  fear, 
The  forests  shake,  the  circling  hamlets  hear, 
And  wake  to  worship.     Many  an  isle  around, 
Assembling  votaries  swell  the  sacred  sound, 

*  The  attire  of  Mithra's  priests  was  splendid  :  the  robes  of  purple, 
with  the  heavenly  constellations  embroidered  on  them  in  gold.  They 
wore  girdles  representative  of  the  zodiacal  circle,  and  carried  a  golden 
sceptre  in  the  form  of  a  serpent.  Ezekiel  speaks  of  them  as  "  exceed 
ing  in  dyed  attire  upon  their  heads  "  (xxiii.  15). 


SALSETTE  AND   ELEPHANTA.  3? 

And,  troop  by  troop,  along  the  woodland  ways, 

In  equal  measures  pour  responsive  praise  : 

To  Mithra  first  their  kindling  songs  addressed, 

Lull  his  long  slumbers  in  the  watery  west  ; 

Next  to  the  strength  of  each  celestial  sign 

They  raise  the  choral  chaunt,  the  breathing  line  ; 

Keen  through  the  arch  of  heaven  their  hymns  arise, 

Auspicious  splendors  deck  the  answering  skies. 

The  sacred  cohorts,  maddening  as  they  sing, 

Far  through  the  air  their  flashing  torches  fling  ; 

From  rock  to  rock  the  rushing  glories  leap, 

Climb  the  wide  hills,  and  clothe  the  central  steep, 

Till  through  the  endless  night  a  living  line 

Of  lustre  opens  on  the  bounding  brine  ; 

Ocean  rejoices,  and  his  isles  prolong, 

With  answering  zeal,  those  bursts  of  flame  and  song, 

Till  the  strong  vulture  on  Colombo's  peak 

Awakes  with  ruffled  plume  and  startled  shriek, 

And  the  roused  panther  of  Almorah's  wood 

Howls  through  his  violated  solitude. 


•°>8  SALSETTE   AND  ELEPHANTA. 

'Tis  past, — the  mingled  dream, — though  slow  and  grey 

On  mead  and  mountain  break  the  dawning  day  ; 

Though  stormy  wreaths  of  lingering  cloud  oppress 

Long  time  the  winds  that  breathe — the  rays  that  bless,  - 

They  come,  they  come.     Night's  fitful  visions  fly 

Like  autumn  leaves,  and  fade  from  fancy's  eye  ; 

So  shall  the  God  of  might  and  mercy  dart 

His  day-beams  through  the  caverns  of  the  heart  ; 

Strike  the  weak  idol  from  its  ancient  throne, 

And  vindicate  the  temple  for  His  own. 

Nor  will  He  long  delay.     A  purer  light 

Than  Mithra  cast,  shall  claim  a  holier  rite  ; 

A  mightier  voice  than  Mithra's  priests  could  pour 

Resistless  soon  shall  sound  along  the  shore  ; 

Its  strength  of  thunder  vanquished  fiends  shall  own, 

And  idols  tremble  through  their  limbs  of  stone. 

Vain  now  the  lofty  light — the  marble  gleam — 
Of  the  keen  shaft  that  rose  by  Gunga's  stream  ! 
When  round  its  base  the  hostile  lightnings  glowed, 
And  mortal  insult  mocked  a  god's  abode, 


SALSETTE    AND    ELEPHANTA.  39 

What  power,  Destroyer,*  seized  with  taming  trance 

Thy  serpent  sceptre,  and  thy  withering  glance  ? 

Low  in  the  dust,  its  rocky  sculptures  rent, 

Thine  own  memorial  proves  thee  impotent. 

Thy  votaries  mourn  thy  cold  unheeding  sleep, 

Chide  where  they  praised,  and  where  they  worshipped  weep. 

Yes — he  shall  fall,  though  once  his  throne  was  set 
Where  the  high  heaven  and  crested  mountains  met  ; 
Though  distant  shone  with  many  an  azure  gem 
The  glacier  glory  of  his  diadem  ; 

Though  sheets  of  sulphurous  cloud  and  wreathed  storm 
Cast  veil  of  terror  round  his  shadowy  form. 
All,  all  are  vain  !    It  comes,  the  hallowed  day, 
Whose  dawn  shall  rend  that  robe  of  fear  away  ; 

*  Siva.  This  column  was  dedicated  to  him  at  Benares ;  and  a  tradi- 
tion prevailed  among  his  worshippers,  that  as  soon  as  it  should  fall,  one 
universal  religion  would  extend  over  India,  and  Bramah  be  no  more 
worshipped.  It  was  lately  thrown  down  in  a  quarrel  between  the 
Hindoos  and  Mussulmans.  (See  Heber's  Journal.)  Siva  is  spoken  of 
in  the  following  lines,  as  representative  of  Hindoo  deities  in  general. 
His  worship  seems  to  have  arisen  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Himalayas, 
accompanied  by  all  the  gloomy  features  characteristic  of  the  supersti- 
tions of  hill  countries. 


40  8AL6ETTE   AXD   ELEPHANTA. 

Then  shall  the  torturing  spells  that  midnight  knew 
Far  in  the  cloven  dells  of  Mount  Meru, 
Then  shall  the  moan  of  frenzied  hymns,  that  sighed 
Down  the  dark  vale  where  Gunga's  waters  glide, 
Then  shall  the  idol  chariot's  thunder  cease 
Before  the  steps  of  them  that  publish  peace. 
Already  arc  they  heard, — how  fair,  how  fleet, 
Along  the  mountains  flash  their  bounding  feet  ! 
Disease  and  death  before  their  presence  fly  ; 
Truth  calls,  and  gladdened  India  hears  the  cry, 
Deserts  the  darkened  path  her  fathers  trod, 
And  seeks  redemption  from  the  Incarnate  God, 


A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG. 

[The  Scythians,  according  to  Herodotus,  made  use  of  part  of  their 
enemies'  bodies  after  death,  for  many  domestic  purposes  ;  particularly 
of  the  skull,  which  they  scalped,  wrapped  in  bull's  hide,  and  filled  up 
the  cracks  with  gold  ;  and  having  gilded  the  hide  and  parts  of  the 
bone,  used  the  vessel  as  a  drinking-cup,  wreathing  it  with  flowers  at 
feasts.] 

I. 

I  thikk  my  soul  was  childish  yet, 

When  first  it  knew  my  manhood's  foe  ; 
But  what  I  was,  or  where  we  met, 

I  know  not — and  I  shall  not  know. 
But  I  remember,  now,  the  bed 

On  which  I  waked  from  such  sick  slumber 
As  after  pangs  of  powerless  dread, 
Is  left  upon  the  limbs  like  lead. 

Amidst  a  calm  and  quiet  number 

Of  corpses,  from  whose  cold  decay 

Mine  infant  fingers  shrank  away ; 

41 


42  A    SCYTHIAN    BANQUET   SOXG. 

My  bruin  was  wild,  my  limbs  were  weak, 
And  silence  swallowed  up  my  shriek — 

Eleleu. 
ii. 
Alas  !  my  kindred,  dark  and  dead 

Were  those  from  whom  I  held  aloof  ; 
I  lay  beneath  the  ruins  red 

Of  what  had  been  my  childhood's  roof  ; 
And  those  who  quenched  its  wasted  wood, 

As  morning  broke  on  me,  and  mine, 
Preserved  a  babe  baptized  in  blood, 
And  human  grief  hath  been  its  food, 

And  human  life  its  wine. 
What  matter  ? — Those  who  left  me  there 
Well  nerved  mine  infant  limbs  to  bear 
What,  heaped  upon  my  haughty  head, 
I  might  endure — but  did  not  dread. 

Eleleu. 
in. 
A  stranger's  hand,  a  stranger's  love, 

Saved  my  life  and  soothed  my  woe, 


A    SCYTHIAN    BANQUET    SONG.  43 

And  taught  my  youth  its  strength  to  prove, 
To  wield  the  lance,  and  bend  the  bow. 

I  slew  the  wolf  by  Tyres'  *  shore, 

I  tracked  the  pard  by  chasm  and  cliff  ; 

Eich  were  the  warrior  sj^oils  I  wore  ; 

Ye  know  me  well,  though  now  no  more 
The  lance  obeys  these  fingers  stiff  ; 

My  hand  was  strong,  my  hope  was  high, 

All  for  the  glance  of  one  dark  eye  ; 

The  hand  is  weak,  the  heart  is  chill — 

The  glance  that  kindled,  colder  still. 

Eleleu, 

IV. 

By  Tyres'  bank,  like  Tyres'  wave, 

The  hours  of  youth  went  softly  by. 
Alas  !  their  silence  could  not  save 

My  being  from  an  evil  eye  : 
It  watched  me — little  though  I  knew 

The  wrath  around  me  rising  slow, 

*  Tyres,  a  river  of  Scythia.  now  the  Dneister. 


44  A   SCYTHIAN   BANQUET   SONG. 

Nor  deemed  my  love  like  Upas  dew, 
A  plague,  that  where  it  settled,  slew. 

My  time  approached  ;  I  met  my  foe  : 
Down  with  a  troop  he  came  by  night,* 
AVe  fought  them  by  their  lances'  light. 
On  lifeless  hearth,  and  guardless  gate, 
The  dawn  of  day  came  desolate. 

Eleleu. 


Away,  away — a  Persian's  slave, 

I  saw  my  bird  of  beauty  borne, 
In  wild  despair,  too  weak  to  save, 

Too  maddening  to  mourn. 
There  dwells  a  sound  within  my  brain 

Of  horses  hoofs'  beat  swift  and  hollow, 
Heard,  when  across  the  distant  plain. 
Elaira  stretched  her  arms  in  vain, 

To  him  whose  limbs  were  faint  to  follow  : 

*  There  were  frequent  incursions  made  by  the  Persians  upon  the 
Scythians  before  the  grand  invasion  of  Darius. 


A   SCYTHIAN   BANQUET   SONG.  45 

The  spoiler  knew  not,  when  he  fled, 
The  power  impending  o'er  his  head  ; 
The  strength  so  few  have  tameless  tried, 
That  love  can  give  for  grief  to  guide. 

Eleleu. 

VI. 

I  flung  my  bow  behind  my  back, 

And  took  a  javelin  in  my  hand, 
And  followed  on  the  fiery  track 

Their  rapine  left  upon  the  land. 
The  desert  sun  in  silence  set, 

The  desert  darkness  climbed  the  sky  ; 
I  knew  that  one  was  waking  yet, 
Whose  heart  was  wild,  whose  eye  was  wet, 

For  me  and  for  my  misery. 
One  who  had  left  her  glance  of  grief, 
Of  earthly  guides  my  chosen  and  chief  ; 
Through  thirst  and  fear,  by  wave  and  hill, 
That  dark  eye  watched  and  wooed  me  still. 

Eleleu. 


46  A   SCYTHIAN    BANQUET   SONG. 

VII. 

Weary  and  weak  their  traces  lost, 

I  roved  the  brazen  cities  through  ; 
That  Helle's  undulating  coast 

Both  lift  beside  its  billows  blue. 
Till  in  a  palace-bordered  street, 

In  the  dusk  starlight  of  the  day, 
A  stalkless  flower  fell  near  my  feet, 
Withered  and  worn,  yet  passing  sweet ; 

Its  root  was  left, — how  far  away  ? 
Its  leaves  were  wet,  though  not  with  dew  ; 
The  breast  that  kept,  the  hand  that  threw, 
Were  those  of  one  who  sickened  more, 
For  the  sweet  breeze  of  Tyres'  shore. 

Eleleu. 

VIII. 

My  tale  is  long.     Though  bolts  of  brass 
Held  not  their  captive's  faint  upbraiding, 

They  melt  like  wax,  they  bend  like  grass, 
At  sorrow's  touch,  when  love  is  aiding  ; 


A    SCYTHIAN"    BANQUET   SONG.  4? 

The  night  was  dim,  the  stars  were  dead, 
The  drifting  clouds  were  grey  and  wide  ; 

The  captive  joined  me  and  we  fled. 

Quivering  with  joy,  though  cold  with  dread, 
She  shuddered  at  my  side. 

We  passed  the  streets,  we  gained  the  gate, 

Where  round  the  wall  its  watchers  wait ; 

Our  steps  beneath  were  hushed  and  slow, 

For  the  third  time — I  met  my  foe. 

Eleleu. 

IX. 

Swift  answering  as  his  anger  cried, 

Came  down  the  sworded  sentinels  ; 
I  dashed  their  closing  spears  aside  ; 

They  thicken,  as  a  torrent  swells, 
When  tempests  feed  its  mountain  source, 

O'er-matched,  borne  down,  with  javelins  rent, 
I  backed  them  still  with  fainting  force, 
Till  the  life  curdled  in  its  course, 

And  left  my  madness  innocent. 


48  A    3<   \TIIIAN.     BANQUET    SOXG. 

The  echo  of  a  maiden's  shriek, 
Mixed  with  my  dreaming  long  and  weak, 
And  when  I  woke  the  daybreak  fell 
Into  a  dark  and  silent  cell. 

Eleleu. 


Know  ye  the  price  that  must  atone, 

"When  power  is  mocked  at  by  its  slave  ? 
Know  ye  the  kind  of  mercy  shown, 

When  pride  condemns,  though  love  would  save  ? 
A  sullen  plash  was  heard  that  night 

To  check  the  calm  of  Helle's  flow  ; 
And  there  was  much  of  love  and  light, 
Quenched,  where  the  foam-globes  moved  most  white, 

With  none  to  save  and  few  to  know, 
Me  they  led  forth,  at  dawn  of  day. 
To  mock,  to  torture,  and  to  slay  : 
They  found  my  courage  calm  and  mild, 
Until  my  foe  came  near  and  smiled. 

Eleleu. 


A   SCYTHIAN    BANQUET   SONG.  49 

XI. 

He  told  me  how  the  midnight  chasm 

Of  ocean  had  been  sweetly  fed  : 
He  paled — recoiling,  for  a  spasm 

Came  o'er  the  limbs  they  dreamed  were  dead  : 
The  earth  grew  hot — the  sky  grew  black — 

The  twisted  cords  gave  way  like  tow  ; 
I  felt  the  branding  fetters  crack, 
And  saw  the  torturers  starting  back, 

And  more  I  do  not  know, 
Until  my  stretched  limbs  dashed  their  way 
Through  the  cold  sea's  resulting  spray, 
And  left  me  where  its  surges  bore 
Their  voices  to  a  lifeless  shore. 

Eleleu. 

XII. 

Mine  aged  eyes  are  dim  and  dry ; 

They  have  not  much  to  see  or  mourn, 
Save  when  in  sleep,  pale  thoughts  pass  by — 

My  heart  is  with  their  footsteps  worn 


50  A    SCYTHIAN   BANQUET   SONG. 

Into  a  pathway.     Swift  and  steep 

Their  troops  pass  down  it— and  I  feel  not — 

Though  they  have  words  would  make  me  weep 

If  I  could  tell  their  meaning  deep — 
But  /  forget— and  they  reveal  not  : 

Oh,  lost  Elaira  ! — when  I  go 

Where  cold  hands  hold  the  soundless  bow, 

Shall  the  black  earth,  all  pitiless, 
Forget  the  early  grave 

Of  her,  whom  beauty  did  not  bless, 

Affection  could  not  save  ? 

Eleleu. 

XIII. 

Oh,  lost  Elaira  !  long  for  thee 

Sweet  Tyres'  banks  have  blushed  in  vain  ; 
And  blight  to  them  and  death  to  me 

Shall  break  the  link  of  memory's  chain. 
My  spirit  keeps  its  lonely  lair 

In  mouldering  lile  to  burn  and  blacken  ; 
The  throbs  that  moved  it  once  arc  there 
Like  wind-  that  stir  a  dead  man's  hair, 

Unable  lo  awaken. 


A   SCYTHIAN    BANQUET   SONG.  51 

Thy  soul  on  earth  supremely  smiled, 
In  beauty  bright,  in  mercy  mild, 
It  looked  to  love,  it  breathed  to  bless — 
It  died,  and  left  me — merciless. 

Eleleu. 

XIV. 

And  men  shrink  from  me,  with  no  sense 

That  the  fierce  heart  they  fear  and  fly, 
Is  one,  whose  only  evidence 

Of  beating  is  in  agony. 
They  know,  with  me,  to  match  or  melt, 

The  sword  or  prayer  alike  are  vain ; 
The  spirit's  presence,  half  unfelt, 
Hath  left, — slow  withering  where  it  dwelt, 

One  precedence  of  pain. 
All  that  my  victims  feel  or  fear 
Is  well  avenged  by  something  here  ; 
And  every  curse  they  breathe  on  me 
Joins  in  the  deep  voice  of  the  sea. 

Eleleu. 


52  A   SCYTHIAN   BANQUET   SONG. 

XV. 

It  rolls — it  coils — it  foams — it  flashes, 

Pale  and  putrid — ghastly  green  ; 
Lit  with  light  of  dead  men's  ashes 

Flickering  through  the  black  weed's  screen, 
Oh  !  there  along  the  breathless  land, 

Elaira  keeps  the  couch  allotted  ; 
The  waters  wave  her  weary  hand, 
And  toss  pale  shells  and  ropy  sand 

About  her  dark  hair,  clasped  and  clotted. 
The  purple  isles  are  bright  above 
The  frail  and  moon-blanched  bones  of  love  ; 
Their  citron  breeze  is  full  of  bliss, 
Her  lips  are  cool  without  its  kiss. 

Eleleu. 

XVI. 

My  thoughts  are  wandering  and  weak  ; 

Forgive  an  old  man's  dotard  dreaming  ; 
I  know  not  sometimes  when  I  speak 

Such  visions  as  have  quiet  seeming. 


A   SCYTHIAN   BANQUET   SONG. 

I  told  you  how  my  madness  bore 

My  limbs  from  torture.     When  I  woke, 
I  do  remember  something  more 
Of  wandering  on  the  wet  sea-shore, 

By  waving  weed  and  withered  rock, 
Calling  Elaira,  till  the  name 
Crossed  o'er  the  waters  as  they  came — 
Mildly — to  hallow  and  to  bless 
Even  what  had  made  it  meaningless — 

Eleleu. 

XVII. 

The  waves  in  answering  murmurs  mixed, 

Tossed  a  frail  fetter  on  the  sand  ; 
Too  well  I  knew  whose  fingers  fixed, 

Whose  arm  had  lost  the  golden  band ; 
For  such  it  was,  as  still  confines 
Faint  Beauty's  arm  who  will  not  listen, 
The  words  of  love  that  mockery  twines 
To  soothe  the  soul  that  pants  and  pines 
Within  its  rose-encumbered  prison. 


54:  A   SCYTHIAN   BANQUET   SONG. 

The  waters  freed  her  ;  she  who  wore 
Fetter  or  armlet  needs  no  more  ; 
Could  the  waves  tell,  who  saw  me  lift, 
For  whom  I  kept,  their  glittering  gift, 

Eleleu. 

XYIII. 

Slow  drifts  the  hour  when  Patience  waits 

Eevenge's  answering  orison  ; 
But — one  by  one  the  darkening  Fates 

Will  draw  the  balanced  axle  on, 
Till  torture  pays  the  price  of  pride, 

And  watches  wave  with  sullen  shine, 
The  sword  of  sorrow  justified. 
The  long  years  kept  their  quiet  glide, 

His  hour  was  past  :  they  brought  me  mine. 
When  steed  to  steed,  and  rank  to  rank, 
With  matched  numbers  fierce  and  frank, 
(The  war- wolves  waiting  near  to  see 
Our  battle  bright)  my  Foe  met  Me. 

Ha — Hurra  ! 


• 


A   SCYTHIAN    BANQUET   SONG. 


XIX. 


As  the  tiger  tears  through  the  jungle  reeds, 

As  the  west  wind  breaks  through  the  sharp  corn  ears, 
As  the  quick  death  follows  where  the  lightning  leads, 

Did  my  dark  horse  bear  through  the  bended  spears  ; 
And  the  blood  came  up  to  my  brain  like  a  mist, 

With  a  dark  delight  and  a  fiery  feel ; 
For  the  black  darts  hailed,  and  the  javelins  hissed, 
To  the  corpses  clasped  in  their  tortured  twist, 

From  mine  arms  like  rain  from  the  red-hot  steel. 
Well  went  the  wild  horses — well  rode  their  lords — 
Wide  waved  the  sea  of  their  circling  swords; 
But  down  went  the  wild  steeds — down  went  the  sea — 
Down  went  the  dark  banners — down  went  He. 

Ha — Hurra  ! 

xx. 

For,  forward  fixed,  my  frenzy  rushed, 

To  one  pale  plume  of  fitful  wave ; 
With  failing  strength,  o'er  corpses  crushed, 

My  horse  obeyed  the  spurs  I  gave. 


56  A    SCYTHIAN   BANQUET   SONG. 

Slow  rolled  the  tide  of  battle  by, 

And  left  me  on  the  field  alone 
Save  that  a  goodly  company 
Lay  gazing  on  the  bright  blue  sky, 

All  as  stiff  as  stone. 
And  the  howling  wolves  came,  merry  and  thick, 
The  flesh  to  tear  and  the  bones  to  pick. 
I  left  his  carcass,  a  headless  prize, 
To  these  priests  of  mine  anger's  sacrifice. 

Ha — Hurra! 

XXI. 

Hungry  they  came,  though  at  first  they  fled 

From  the  grizzly  look  of  a  stranger  guest — 
From  a  horse  with  its  hoof  on  a  dead  man's  head, 

And  a  soldier  who  leaned  on  a  lance  in  his  breast. 
The  night  wind's  voice  was  hoarse  and  deep, 

But  there  were  thoughts  within  me  rougher, 
When  my  foiled  passion  could  not  keep 
His  eyes  from  settling  into  sleep 

That  could  not  see,  nor  suffer. 


A    SCYTHIAN    BANQUET   SONG.  57 

He  knew  his  spirit  was  delivered 
By  the  last  nerve  my  sword  had  severed, 
And  lay — his  death  pang  scarcely  done, 
Stretched  at  my  mercy — asking  none. 

Eleleu. 

XXII. 

His  lips  were  pale.     They  once  had  worn 

A  fiercer  paleness.     For  awhile 
Their  gashes  kept  the  curl  of  scorn, 

But  now — they  always  smile. 
A  life  like  that  of  smouldering  ashes, 

Had  kept  his  shadowy  eyeballs  burning. 
Full  through  the  neck  my  sabre  crashes — 
The  black  blood  burst  beneath  their  lashes 

In  the  strained  sickness  of  their  turning. 
By  my  bridle-rein  did  I  hang  the  head, 
And  I  spurred  my  horse  through  the  quick  and  dead, 
Till  his  hoofs  and  his  hair  dropped  thick  and  fresh, 
From  the  black  morass  of  gore  and  flesh. 

Ha — Hurra  ! 


58  A    SCYTHIAN    BANQUET   SONG. 

XXIII. 

My  foe  had  left  me  little  gold 

To  mock  the  stolen  food  of  the  grave, 
Except  one  circlet  :  I  have  told 

The  arm  that  lost,  the  surge  that  gave, 
Flexile  it  was,  of  fairest  twist : 

Pressing  its  sunlike,  woven  line, 
A  careless  counter  had  not  missed 
One  pulse  along  a  maiden's  wrist, 

So  softly  did  the  clasp  confine. 
This — molten  till  it  flowed  as  free 
As  daybreak  on  the  Egean  sea, 
He  who  once  clasped — for  Love  to  sever 
And  death  to  lose,  received — for  ever. 

XXIV. 

I  poured  it  round  the  wrinkled  brow, 
Till  hissed  its  cold,  corrupted  ;skin  ; 

Through  sinuous  nerves  the  liery  flow 
Sucked  and  seared  the  brain  within. 


A   SCYTHIAN    BANQUET   SONG.  59 

The  brittle  bones  were  well  annealed, 
A  bull's  hide  bound  the  goblet  grim, 

Which  backwards  bended,  and  revealed 

The  dark  eye  sealed,  the  set  lips  peeled  : 
Look  here  !  how  I  have  pardoned  him. 

They  call  it  glorious  to  forgive  ; 

'Tis  dangerous,  among  those  that  live, 

But  the  dead  are  daggerless  and  mild, 

And  niv  foe  smiles  on  me — like  a  child. 


XXV. 

Fill  me  the  wine  !  for  daylight  fades, 

The  evening  mists  fall  cold  and  blue  ; 
My  soul  is  crossed  wdth  lonelier  shades, 

My  brow  is  damp  with  darker  dew ; 
The  earth  hath  nothing  but  its  bed 

Left  more  for  me  to  seek,  or  shun  ; 
My  rage  is  passed— my  vengeance  fed — 
The  grass  is  wet  with  what  I've  shed, 

The  air  is  dark  with  what  I've  done  ; 


60  A   SCYTHIAN    BANQUET   SONG. 

And  the  gray  mound,  that  I  have  built 
Of  intermingled  grief  and  guilt, 
Sits  on  my  breast  with  sterner  seat 
Than  my  old  heart  can  bear,  and  beat. 

Eleleu. 


XXVI. 

Fill  wine  !     These  fleshless  jaws  are  dry, 

And  gurgle  with  the  crimson  breath  ; 
Fill  me  the  wine  !  for  such  as  I 

Are  meet,  methinks,  to  drink  with  death. 
Give  me  the  roses  !     They  shall  weave 

One  crown  for  me,  and  one  for  him, 
Fresher  than  his  compeers  receive, 
Who  slumber  where  the  white  worms  leave 

Their  tracks  of  slime  on  cheek  and  limb. 
Kiss  me,  mine  enemy  !     Lo  !  how  it  slips, 
The  rich  red  wine  through  his  skeleton  lips  ; 
His  eye-holes  glitter,  his  loose  teeth  shake, 
Bui  their  words  arc  all  drowsy  and  will  not  wake. 


A    SCYTHIAN    BANQUET   SONG.  61 

XXVII. 

That  lifeless  gaze  is  fixed  on  me  ; 

Those  lips  would  hail  a  boimden  brother ; 
"We  sit  in  love,  and  smile  to  see 

The  things  that  we  have  made  each  other. 
The  wreaking  of  our  wrath  has  reft 

Our  souls  of  all  that  loved  or  lightened  : 
He  knows  the  heart  his  hand  has  left, 
He  sees  its  calm  and  closeless  cleft, 

And  I — the  bones  my  vengeance  whitened. 
Kiss  me,  mine  enemy  !     Fill  thee  with  wine  ! 
Be  the  flush  of  thy  revelling  mingled  with  mine ; 
Since  the  hate  and  the  horror  we  drew  with  our  breath 
Are  lost  in  forgiveness,  and  darkened  in  death. 


THE   SCYTHIAN   GUEST. 

When  the  master  of  a  Scythian  family  died  he  was  placed  in  his 
state  chariot,  and  carried  to  visit  every  one  of  his  blood  relations.  Each 
of  them  gave  him  and  his  attendants  a  splendid  feast  at  which  the  dead 
man  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  a  piece  of  everything  was  put  on 
his  plate.  In  the  morning  he  continued  his  circuit.  This  round  of 
visits  generally  occupied  nearly  forty  days,  and  he  was  never  buried 
till  the  whole  number  had  elapsed.  I  have  taken  him  at  about  six 
days  old  when  a  little  phosphoric  light  might  play  about  his  skin  in 
the  dark,  and  yet  the  corruption  would  not,  in  a  cool  country,  have 
made  anything  shapeless  or  decidedly  unpleasant. — See  Herodotus, 
Melpomene,  73. 

I. 

The  feast  is  full,  the  guests  are  gay, 

Though  at  his  lance-illumined,  door 
Still  must  the  anxious  master  stay, 

For,  by  the  echoing  river  shore, 
Ee  hears  the  hot  and  hurrying  beat 
Of  harnessed  horse's  flying  feet, 
And  waits  to  watch  and  yearns  to  greet 


The  coming  of  the  brave. 


62 


THE   SCYTHIAN   GUEST.  63 

Behold — like  showers  of  silver  sleet, 
His  lines  of  lances  wind  and  wave  : 
He  comes  as  he  was  wont  to  ride 
By  Hypanis'  war  troubled  tide, 
When,  like  the  west  wind's  sternest  stoop, 
Was  the  strength  of  his  tempestuous  troop, 
And  when  their  dark  steed's  shadows  swift 
Had  crossed  the  current's  foamless  drift, 
The  light  of  the  river  grew  dazzled  and  dim, 
With  the  flash  of  the  hair  and  the  flight  of  the  limb. 

ii. 
He  comes — urged  on  by  shout  and  lash, 

His  favorite  courser  flies  ; 
There's  frenzy  in  its  drooping  dash, 

And  sorrow  in  its  eyes. 
Close  on  its  hoofs  the  chariots  crash, 
Their  shook  reins  ring — their  axles  flash — 
The  charioteers  are  wild  and  rash  ; 
Panting  and  cloven  the  swift  air  feels 
The  red  breath  of  the  whirling  wheels, 


64  THE   SCYTHIAN   GUEST. 

Hissing  with  heat,  and  drunk  with  speed 

Of  wild  delight,  that  seems  to  feed 

Upon  the  fire  of  its  own  flying  ; 

Yet  he  for  whom  they  race  is  lying 

Motionless  in  his  chariot,  and  still 

Like  one  of  weak  desire  or  fettered  will, 

Is  it  the  sun-lulled  sleep  of  weariness 

That  weighs  upon  him  ?     Lo  !  there  is  no  stress 

Of  slumber  on  his  eyelids — some  slow  trance, 

Seems  dwelling  on  the  darkness  of  his  glance  ; 

Its  depth  is  quiet,  and  its  keenness  cold 

As  an  eagle's  quenched  with  lightning,  the  close  fold 

Of  his  strong  arms  is  listless,  like  the  twine 

Of  withered  weeds  along  the  waving  line 

Of  flowing  streams  ;  and  o'er  his  face  a  strange 

Deep  shadow  is  cast,  which  doth  not  move  nor  change. 


III. 

At  the  known  gate  the  coursers  check, 
With  panting  breast  and  lowly  neck  ; 


THE   SCYTHIAN    GUEST.  C5 

From  kingly  group,  from  menial  crowd, 
The  cry  of  welcome  rings  aloud  : 
It  was  not  wont  to  be  so  weak, — 
Half  a  shout  and  half  a  shriek, 
Mixed  with  the  low  yet  penetrating  quiver 
Of  constrained  voices,  such  as  creep 
Into  cold  words,  when,  dim  and  deep, 
Beneath  the  wild  heart's  death-like  shiver 
Mocks  at  the  message  that  the  lips  deliver. 

IV. 

Doth  he  not  hear  ?     Will  he  not  wake  ? 
That  shout  of  welcome  did  not  break, 
Even  for  an  instant  on  the  trace 
Of  the  dark  shadow  o'er  his  face. 
Behold,  his  slaves  in  silence  lift 
That  frame  so  strong,  those  limbs  so  swift9 
Like  a  sick  child's  ;  though  half  erect 
He  rose  when  first  his  chariot  checked, 
He  fell — as  leaves  fall  on  the  spot 
Where  summer  sun  shall  waken  not 


66  THE   SCYTHIAN"   GUEST. 

The  mingling  of  their  veined  sensation, 
With  the  black  earth's  wormy  desolation. 
With  stealthy  tread,  like  those  that  dread 
To  break  the  j^eace  of  sorrow's  slumber, 

They  move,  whose  martial  force  he  led, 
"Whose  arms  his  passive  limbs  encumber  : 

Through  passage  and  port,  through  corridor  and  court, 
They  hold  their  dark,  slow-trodden  track  ; 

Beneath  that  crouching  figure's  scowl 
The  household  dogs  hang  wildly  back, 

With  wrinkled  lip  and  hollow  howl ; 
And  on  the  mien  of  those  they  meet, 

Their  presence  passes  like  the  shadow 
Of  the  gray  storm-cloud's  swirling  sheet, 

Along  some  soft  sun-lighted  meadow  ; 
For  those  who  smiled  before  they  met, 

Have  turned  away  to  smile  no  more; 
Even  as  they  pass,  their  lips  forget 

The  words  they  wove — the  hues  they  wore; 
Even  as  they  look,  the  eyes  grow  wet 

That  glanced  most  bright  before  ! 


THE    SCYTHIAN    GUEST.  67 

V. 

The  feast  is  ranged,  the  guests  are  met ; 

High  on  the  central  throne, 
That  dark  and  voiceless  Lord  is  set, 

And  left  alone  ; 
And  the  revel  is  loud  among  the  crowd, 

As  the  laugh  on  surges  free, 
Of  their  merry  and  multitudinous  lips, 
When  the  fiery  foamlight  skims  and  skips, 

Along  the  sounding  sea. 
The  wine  is  red  and  wildly  shed, 
The  wreathed  jest  is  gaily  sped. 
And  the  rush  of  their  merrim::it  rises  aloof 
Into  the  shade  of  the  ringing  roof  ; 
And  yet  their  cheeks  look  faint  and  dead, 

And  their  lips  look  pale  and  dry  ; 
In  every  heart  there  dwells  a  dread, 

And  a  trouble  in  every  eye. 

VI. 

For  sternly  charmed,  or  strangely  chill, 
That  lonely  Lord  sits  stiff  and  still, 


G8  THE   SCYTHIAN    GUEST. 

Far  in  the  chamber  gathered  back 

Where  the  lamps  are  few,  and  the  shadows  black ; 

So  that  the  strained  eye  scarce  can  guess 

At  the  fearful  form  of  his  quietness, 

And  shrinks  from  what  it  cannot  trace, 

Yet  feels,  is  worse  than  even  the  error 
That  veils,  within  that  ghastly  space, 
The  shrouded  form  and  shadowed  face 

Of  indistinct,  unmoving  terror. 
And  the  life  and  light  of  the  atmosphere 
Are  choked  with  mingled  mist  and  fear, 
Something  half  substance  and  half  thought,— 
A  feeling,  visibly  inwrought 
Into  the  texture  of  the  air  ; 
And  though  the  fanned  lamps  flash  and  11. ire 
Among  the  other  guests — by  Him, 
They  have  grown  narrow,  and  blue  and  dim, 
And  steady  in  their  fire,  as  if 
Some  frigid  horror  made  them  stiff. 
Nor  eye  hath  marked,  nor  ear  hath  heard 
That  form,  if  once  it  breathed  or  stirred  ; 


THE   SCYTHIAN   GUEST,  69 

Though  the  dark  revel's  forced  fits 
Penetrate  where  it  sleeps  and  sits ; 
But  this,  their  fevered  glances  mark 
Ever,  for  ever,  calm  and  dark  ; 
With  lifeless  hue,  and  changeless  trace, 
That  shadow  dwells  upon  his  face. 

VII. 

It  is  not  pain,  nor  passion,  but  a  deep 

Incorporated  darkness,  like  the  sleep 

Of  the  lead-coloured  anger  of  the  ocean, 

When  the  heaven  is  fed  with  death,  and  its  gray  motion 

Over  the  waves,  invisible — it  seems 

Entangled  with  the  flesh,  till  the  faint  gleams 

Of  natural  flush  have  withered  like  the  light 

Of  the  keen  morning,  quenched  with  the  close  flight 

Of  thunder  ;  and  beneath  that  deadly  veil, 

The  coldness  of  the  under-skin  is  pajp 

And  ghastly,  and  transparent  as  beneath 

Some  midnight  vapour's  intertwined  wreath 

Glares  the  green  moonlight ;  and  a  veined  fire 

Seems  throbbing  through  it,  like  a  dim  desire 


70  THE    SCYTHIAN    GUEST. 

Felt  through  inanimation,  of  charmed  life 
Struggling  with  strong  sick  pants  of  beaming  strife, 
That  wither  and  yet  warm  not  : — through  its  reins, 
The   quenched   blood   beats  not,  burns  not,  but  dark 

stains 
Of  congealed  blackness,  on  the  cheek  and  brow, 

Lie  indistinct  amidst  their  frightful  shade  ; 
The  breathless  lips,  like  two  thin  flakes  of  snow, 

Gleam  with  wan  lines,  by  some  past  agony  made 
To  set  into  the  semblance  of  a  smile, 
Such  as  strong-hearted  men  wear  wildly,  while 
Their  souls  are  twined  with  torture  ;  calm  and  fixed, 

And  yet  distorted,  as  it  could  not  be, 
Had  not  the  chill  with  which  it  froze  been  mixed 

With  twitching  cords  of  some  strong  agony. 
And  the  Avhite  teeth  gleam  through  the  ghastly  chasm 
Of  that  strange  smile  ;  close  clenched,  as  the  last  spasm 
Of  the  wrung  nerves  has  knit  them;  could  they  move, 
They  would  gnash  themselves  to  pieces;  from  above 
The  veiling  shadow  of  the  forehead  falls, 
Yet  with  an  under-glare  the  fixed  balls 


THE   SCYTHIAN   GUEST.  71 

Of  the  dark  eyes  gleam  steadily,  though  not 
With  any  inward  light,  or  under-thought, 
But  casting  back  from  their  forgetful  trance, 
To  each  who  looks,  the  flash  of  his  own  glance  ; 
So  that  each  feels,  of  all  assembled  there, 
Fixed  on  himself,  that  strange  and  meaning  glare 
Of  eyes  most  motionless ;  the  long  dark  hair 
Hangs  tangled  o'er  the  faded  feature's  gloom, 
Like  withered  weeds  above  a  mouldering  tomb, 
Matted  in  black  decay ;  the  cold  night  air 
Hath  stirred  them  once  or  twice,  even  as  despair 
Plays  with  the  heart's  worn  chords,  that  last  retain 
Their  sense  of  sorrow,  and  their  pulse  of  pain. 

VIII. 

Yet  strike,  oh  !  strike  the  chorded  shell, 

And  let  the  notes  be  low  and  skilled; 
Perchance  the  words  he  loved  so  well 

May  thrill  as  once  they  thrilled. 
That  deadened  ear  may  still  be  true 
To  the  soft  voice  that  once  it  knew; 


72  THE    SCYTHIAN   GUEST. 

And  the  throbs  that  beat  below  the  heart, 

And  the  joys  that  burn  above, 
Shall  bid  the  light  of  laughter  dart 

Along  the  lips  of  love. 
Alas !  those  tones  are  all  untold 
On  ear  and  heart  so  closed  and  cold ; 
The  slumber  shall  be  sound, — the  night, — how  long  ! 
That  will  not  own  the  power  of  smile  or  song  ; 
Those  lips  of  love  may  burn,  his  eyes  are  dim  ; 
That  voice  of  joy  may  wake,  but  not  for  him. 

IX. 

The  rushing  wine,  the  rose's  flush, 

Have  crowned  the  goblet's  glancing  brim; 
But  who  shall  call  the  blossom's  blush, 

Or  bid  the  goblet  flow  for  him? 
For  how  shall  thirst  or  hunger's  heat 

Attend  the  sunless  track. 
Towards  the  cool  and  calm  retreat; 
From  which  his  courser's  flashing  feet 

Can  never  bear  him  back  ? 


THE   SCYTHIAN   GUEST.  73 

There,  by  the  cold  corpse-guarded  hill, 
The  shadows  fall  both  broad  and  still ; 
There  shall  they  fall  at  night, — at  noon, 

Nor  own  the  day  star's  warning, 
Grey  shades,  that  move  not  with  the  moon, 

And  perish  not  with  morning. 


Farewell,  farewell,  thou  presence  pale  ! 

The  bed  is  stretched  where  thou  shouldst  be ; 
The  dawn  may  lift  its  crimson  veil, 

It  doth  not  breathe,  nor  burn  for  thee. 
The  mien  of  might,  the  glance  of  light, 

That  checked  or  cheered  the  war's  career, 
Are  dreadless  in  the  fiery  fight, 

Are  dreadful  only  here. 
Exulting  hatred,  red  and  rife, 

May  smile  to  mark  thine  altered  brow ; 
There  are  but  those  wrho  loved  in  life, 

Who  fear  thee,  now. 


74  THE   SCYTHIAN    0UB8 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  Presence  pale  ! 

The  couch  is  near  where  thou  shouldst  be  ; 
Thy  troops  of  Death  have  donned  their  mail; 

And  wait  and  watch  for  thee. 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

PART  FIRST. 
I. 

It  is  most  sad  to  see — to  know 
This  world  so  full  of  war  and  woe, 

E'er  since  our  parents  failing  duty. 
Bequeathed  the  curse  to  all  below, 

And  left  the  burning  breach  of  beauty. 
Where  the  flower  hath  fairest  hue, 

Where  the  breeze  hath  balmiest  breath, 
Where  the  dawn  hath  softest  dew, 
Where  the  heaven  hath  deepest  blue, 

There  is  death. 
Where  the  gentle  streams  of  thinking, 

Through  our  hearts  that  flow  so  free, 
Have  the  deepest,  softest  sinking 

And  the  fullest  melody ; 
Where  the  crown  of  hope  is  nearest, 
Where  the  voice  of  joy  is  clearest, 


To 


76  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

Where  the  heart  of  youth  is  lightest, 
Where  the  light  of  love  is  brightest, 
There  is  death. 

II. 

It  is  the  hour  when  (lay's  delight 

Fadeth  in  the  dewy  sorrow 
Of  the  star  inwoven  night  ; 
And  the  red  lips  of  the  west 
Are  in  smiles  of  lightning  drest, 

Speaking  of  a  lovely  morrow  : 
But  there's  an  eye  in  which,  from  far, 
The  chill  beams  of  the  evening  star 

Do  softly  move,  and  mildly  quiver ; 
Which,  ere  the  purple  mountains  meet 
The  light  of  morning's  misty  feet, 

Will  be  dark — and  dark  for  ever. 

in. 

It  was  within  a  convent  old, 

Through  her  lips  the  low  breath  sighing, 


THE   BEOKEN   CHAIN.  77 

Which  the  quick  pains  did  unfold 
With  a  paleness  calm,  but  cold, 

Lay  a  lovely  lady  dying. 
As  meteors  from  the  sunless  north 

Through  long  low  clouds  illume  the  air, 
So  brightly  shone  her  features  forth 

Amidst  her  darkly  tangled  hair  ; 
And,  like  a  spirit,  still  and  slow, 

A  light  beneath  that  raven  veil 
Moved, — where  the  blood  forgot  to  glow, 
As  moonbeams  shine  on  midnight  snow, 

So  dim, — so  sad, — so  pale. 
And,  ever  as  the  death  came  nearer, 
That  melancholy  light  waxed  clearer  : 
It  rose,  it  shone,  it  never  dwindled, 

As  if  in  death  it  could  not  die  ; 
The  air  was  filled  with  it,  and  kindled 

As  souls  are  by  sweet  agony. 
Where  once  the  life  was  rich  and  red, 
The  burning  lip  was  dull  and  dead, 
As  crimson  cloud-streaks  melt  away, 
Before  a  ghastly  darkened  day. 


78  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN-. 

Faint  and  low  the  pulses  faded, 

One  by  one,  from  brow  and  limb  ; 
There  she  lay — her  dark  eyes  shaded 

By  her  fingers  dim  ; 
And  through  their  paly  brightness  burning 
With  a  wild  inconstant  motion, 
As  reflected  stars  of  morning 

Through  the  crystal  foam  of  ocean. 
There  she  lay — like  something  holy, 
Moveless — voiceless,  breathing  slowly, 
Passing,  withering,  fainting,  failing, 
Lulled  and  lost  and  unbewailing. 

IV. 

The  abbess  knelt  beside,  to  bless 
Her  parting  hour  with  tenderness, 
And  watched  the  light  of  life  depart, 
With  tearful  eye  and  weary  heart  ; 
And,  ever  and  anon,  would  dip 

Her  fingers  in  the  hallowed  water, 
And  lay  it  on  her  parching  lip, 

Or  cross  her  death  damped  brow  ; 


THE    BROKEN   CHAIN".  79 

And  softly  whisper, — Peace, — my  daughter, 

For  thou  shalt  slumber  softly  now. 
And  upward  held,  with  pointing  finger, 

The  cross  before  her  darkening  eye  ; 
Its  glance  was  changing,  nor  did  linger 

Upon  the  ebon  and  ivory  ; 
Her  lips  moved  feebly,  and  the  air 
Between  them  whispered — not  with  prayer ! 
Oh  !  who  shall  know  what  wild  and  deep 
Imaginations  rouse  from  sleep, 
Within  that  heart,  whose  quick  decay 
So  soon  shall  sweep  them  all  away. 
Oh  !  who  shall  know  what  things  they  be 
That  tongue  would  tell — that  glance  doth  see  ; 
Which  rouse  the  voice,  the  vision  fill, 
Ere  eye  be  dark,  and  tongue  be  still. 


It  is  most  fearful  when  the  light 

Of  thoughts,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 


80  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

That  through  the  heart's  illumination 

Darts  burning  beams  and  fiery  flashes, 
Fades  into  weak  wan  animation, 

And  darkens  into  dust  and  ashes  ; 
And  hopes,  that  to  the  heart  have  been 
As  to  the  forest  is  its  green, 

(Or  as  the  gentle  passing  by 
Of  its  spirits'  azure  wings 

Is  to  the  broad,  wind-wearied  sky)  ; 
Do  pale  themselves  like  fainting  things, 

And  wither,  one  by  one,  away, 
Leaving  a  ghastly  silence  where 

Their  voice  was  wont  to  move  and  play 
Amidst  the  fibres  of  our  feeling, 
Like  the  low  and  unseen  stealing, 

Of  the  soft  and  sultry  air  ; 
That,  with  its  fingers  weak  unweaves 

The  dark  and  intert angled  hair, 
Of  many  moving  forest  leaves  ; 
And,  though  their  life  be  lost  do  float, 
Around  us  still,  yet  far  remote, 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  81 


And  come  at  the  same  call  arranged, 

By  the  same  thoughts,  but  oh,  how  changed  ! 

Alas  !  dead  hopes  are  fearful  things, 

To  dwell  around  us,  for  their  eyes 
Pierce  through  our  souls  like  adder  stings  ; 

Vampyre-like  their  troops  arise, 
Each  in  his  own  death  entranced, 
Frozen  and  corpse-countenanced  ; 
Filling  memory's  maddened  eye 
With  a  shadowed  mockery. 
And  a  wan  and  fevered  vision, 
Of  her  loved  and  lost  Elysian  ; 

Until  we  hail,  and  love,  and  bless 
The  last  strange  joy,  where  joy  hath  fled, 
The  last  one  hope,  where  hope  is  dead, 

The  finger  of  forgetfulness  ; 
Which,  dark  as  night,  and  dull  as  lead, 
Comes  across  the  sjnrit  passing, 

Like  a  coldness  through  night  air, 
With  its  withering  wings  effacing 

Thoughts  that  lived  or  lingered  there  ; 


82  THE   BROKEN   CHART. 

Light,  and  life,  and  joy,  and  pain, 
Till  the  frozen  heart  rejoices, 
As  the  echoes  of  lost  voices 

Die  and  do  not  rise  again  ; 
And  shadowy  memories  wake  no  more 
Along  the  hearts'  deserted  shore  ; 
But  fall  and  faint  away  and  sicken, 
Like  a  nation  fever-stricken, 
And  see  not  from  the  bosom  reft 
The  desolation  they  have  left. 


VI. 

Yet,  though  that  trance  be  still  and  deep, 
It  will  be  broken  ere  its  sleep 

Be  dark  and  unawaked — forever  ; 
And  from  the  soul  quick  thoughts  will  leap 

Forth  like  a  sad,  sweet-singing  river, 
Whose  gentle  waves  flow  softly  o'er 
That  broken  heart, — that  desert  shore  ; 
The  lamp  of  life  leaps  up  before 


THE    BROKEN   CHAItf.  83 

Its  light  be  lost  to  live  no  more  ; 

Ere  yet  its  shell  of  clay  be  shattered, 
And  all  the  beams  at  once  could  pour, 

In  dust  of  death  be  darkly  scattered. 

VII. 

Alas  !  the  stander-by  might  tell 
That  lady's  racking  thoughts  too  well ; 
The  work  within  he  might  descry 
By  trembling  brow,  and  troubled  eye, 
That  as  the  lightning  fiery,  fierce, 

Strikes  chasms  along  the  keen  ice  plain  ; 
The  barbed  and  burning  memories  pierce 

Her  dark  and  dying  brain. 
And  many  mingled  visions  swim 
"Within  the  convent  chamber  dim  ; 
The  sad  twilight  whose  lingering  lines 
Fall  faintly  through  the  forest  pines, 
And  with  their  dusky  radiance  lume 
That  lowly  bed  and  lonely  room, 
Are  filled,  before  her  earnest  gaze, 
With  dazzling  dreams  of  by-gone  days. 


84  THE   BROKEN"   CHAIN. 

They  come,  they  come,  a  countless  host, 
Forms  long  unseen,  and  looks  long  lost, 
And  voices  loved, — not  well  forgot, 

Awake  and  seem,  with  accents  dim, 
Along  the  convent  air  to  float  ; 
That  innocent  air  that  knoweth  not, 

A  sound  except  the  vesper  hymn. 

VIII. 

'Tis  past,  that  rush  of  hurried  thought, 
The  light  within  her  deep  dark  eye 
Was  quenched  by  a  wan  tear  mistily. 
Which  trembled  though  it  lightened  not, 
As  the  cold  peace,  which  all  may  share, 
Soothed  the  last  sorrow  life  could  bear. 
What  grief  was  that,  the  broken  heart 
Loved  to  (lie  hist,  and  would  not  part  ? 
What  grief  was  that,  whose  calmness  cold 
By  deatli  alone  could  be  consoled  ? 
As  the  soft  hand  of  coming  resi 
Bowed  her  fair  head  upon  her  breast, 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  85 

As  the  last  pulse  decayed,  to  keep 
Her  heart  from  heaving  in  its  sleep, 
The  silence  of  her  voice  was  broken, 

As  by  a  gasp  of  mental  pain  ; 
"  May  the  faith  thou  hast  forgotten 

Bind  thee  with  its  broken  chain." 
The  Abbess  raised  her,  but  in  vain  ; 

For,  as  the  last  faint  word  was  spoken, 
The  silver  cord  was  burst  in  twain, 

The  golden  bowl  was  broken. 


PART  SECOND. 

I. 
The  bell  from  Saint  Cecilia's  shrine 

Had  tolled  the  evening  hour  of  prayer ; 
With  tremulation,  far  and  fine, 

It  wTaked  the  purple  air  : 
The  peasant  heard  its  distant  beat, 
And  crossed  his  brow  wTith  reverence  meet : 
The  maiden  heard  it  sinking  sweet 


86  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

Within  her  jasmine  bower, 
And  treading  down,  with  silver  feet, 

Each  pale  and  passioned  flower  : 
The  weary  pilgrim,  lowly  lying 

By  Saint  Cecilia's  fountain  grey, 
Smiled  to  hear  that  curfew  dying 

Down  the  darkening  day  : 
And  where  the  white  waves  move  and  glisten 

Along  the  river's  reedy  shore, 
The  lonely  boatman  stood  to  listen, 

Leaning  on  his  lazy  oar. 

n. 

On  Saint  Cecilia's  vocal  spire 

The  sun  had  cast  his  latest  fire, 

And  flecked  the  west  with  many  a  fold 

Of  purple  clouds  o'er  bars  of  gold. 

That  vocal  spire  is  all  alone, 

Albeit  its  many  winding  tone 

Floats  waste  away — oh  !  far  away, 

Where  bowers  are  bright  and  fields  are  gay; 


THE   BROKEN    CHAIN.  87 

That  vocal  spire  is  all  alone, 

Amidst  a  secret  wilderness, 
With  deep  free  forest  overgrown  ; 

And  purple  mountains,  which  the  kiss 
Of  pale-lipped  clouds  doth  fill  with  love 
Of  the  bright  heaven  that  burns  above, 
The  woods  around  are  wild  and  wide, 

And  interwove  with  breezy  motion  ; 
Their  bend  before  the  tempest  tide 

Is  like  the  surge  of  shoreless  ocean ; 
Their  summer  voice  is  like  the  tread 
Of  trooping  steeds  to  battle  bred  ; 
Their  autumn  voice  is  like  the  cry 
Of  a  nation  clothed  with  misery  ; 
And  the  stillness  of  the  winter's  wood 
Is  as  the  hush  of  a  multitude. 

in. 
The  banks  beneath  are  flecked  with  light, 
All  through  the  clear  and  crystal  'night, 
For  as  the  blue  heaven,  rolling  on, 
Doth  lift  the  stars  up  one  by  one  ; 


THE   BROKEN    CHAIN. 

Each,  like  a  bright  eye  through  its  gates 

Of  silken  lashes  dark  and  long, 
With  lustre  fills,  and  penetrates 

Those  branches  close  and  strong ; 
And  nets  of  tangled  radiance  weaves 
Between  the  many  twinkling  leaves, 

And  through  each  small  and  verdant  chasm 
Lets  fall  a  flake  of  fire, 

Till  every  leaf,  with  voiceful  spasm, 
Wakes  like  a  golden  lyre. 

Swift,  though  still,  the  fiery  thrill 
Creeps  along  from  spray  to  spray, 

Light  and  music,  mingled,  fill 
Every  pulse  of  passioned  breath  ; 
Which,  o'er  the  incense — sickened  death 
Of  the  faint  flowers,  that  live  by  day, 
Floats  like  a  soul  above  the  clay, 
\\  hose  beauty  hath  not  passed  away. 

IV. 

Hark  !  hark  !  along  the  twisted  roof 
Of  bough  and  leafage,  tempest-proof, 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  89 

There  whispers,  hushed  and  hollow, 
The  beating  of  a  horse's  hoof, 

Which  low,  faint  echoes  follow, 
Down  the  deeply-swarded  floor 

Of  a  forest  aisle,  the  muffled  tread, 

Hissing  where  the  leaves  are  dead, 
Increases  more  and  more  ; 

And  lo  !  between  the  leaves  and  light, 
Up  the  avenue's  narrow  sjian, 

There  moves  a  blackness,  shaped  like 
The  shadow  of  a  man. 
Nearer  now,  where  through  the  maze 
Cleave  close  the  horizontal  rays  : 
It  moves — a  solitary  knight, 
Borne  with  undulation  light 

As  is  the  windless  walk  of  ocean, 
On  a  black  steed's  Arabian  grace, 
Mighty  of  mien,  and  proud  of  pace, 

But  modulate  of  motion. 
O'er  breast  and  limb,  from  head  to  heel, 
Fall  flexile  folds  of  sable  steel-; 


90  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

Little  the  ligli  tning  of  war  could  avail, 

If  it  glanced  on  the  strength  of  the  folded  mail. 

The  beaver  bars  his  vizage  mask, 
By  outward  bearings  unrevealed  : 

He  bears  no  crest  upon  his  casque, 
Xo'symbol  on  his  shield. 

Slowly  and  with  slackened  rein, 

Either  in  sorrow,  or  in  pain, 
Through  the  forest  he  joaces  on, 

As  our  life  does  in  a  desolate  dream, 
When  the  heart  and  the  limbs  arc  as  heavy  as  stone. 

And  the  remembered  tone  and  moony  gleam 
Of  hushed  voices  and  dead  eyes 
Draw  us  on  the  dim  path  of  shadowy  destinies. 

y. 
The  vesper  chime  hath  ceased  to  beat, 
And  the  hill  echoes  to  repeat 

The  trembling  of  the  argent  bell. 
What  second  sounding — dead  and  deep, 
And  cold  of  cadence,  stirs  the  sleep 

Of  twilight  with  itfl  sullen  swell  ? 


THE   BROKEN"   CHAIN.  91 

The  knight  drew  bridle,  as  he  heard 

Its  voice  creep  through  his  beaver  barred, 

Just  where  a  cross  of  marble  stood, 

Grey  in  the  shadow  of  the  wood. 

Whose  youngest  coppice,  twined  and  torn, 

Concealed  its  access  worship-worn  : 

It  might  be  chance — it  might  be  art, 

Or  opportune,  or  unconfessed, 
But  from  this  cross  there  did  depart 

A  pathway  to  the  west  ; 
By  which  a  narrow  glance  was  given, 
To  the  high  hills  and  highest  heaven, 
To  the  blue  river's  bended  line, 
And  Saint  Cecilia's  lonely  shrine. 

VI. 

Blue,  and  baseless,  and  beautiful 
Did  the  boundless  mountains  bear 
Their  folded  shadows  into  the  golden  air. 
The  comfortlessness  of  their  chasms  was  full 
Of  orient  cloud  and  undulating  mist, 
Which,  where  their  silver  cataracts  hissed, 


92  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

Quivered  with  panting  colour.     Far  above 

A  lightning  pulse  of  soundless  fire  did  move 

In  the  blue  heaven  itself,  and,  snake-like  slid 

Round  peak  and  precipice,  and  pyramid  ; 

White  lines  of  light  along  their  crags  alit, 

And    the   cold    lips    of   their   chasms    were  wreathed 

with  it, 
Until  they  smiled  with  passionate  fire  ;  the  sky 
Hung  over  them  with  answering  ecstasy  ; 
Through  its  pale  veins  of  cloud,  like  blushing  blood, 
From  south  to  north  the  swift  pulsation  glowed 
With  infinite  emotion  ;  but  it  ceased 

In  the  far  chambers  of  the  dewy  west. 
There  the  weak  day  stood  withering,  like  a  spirit 

Which,  in  its  dim  departure,  turns  to  bless 
Their  sorrow  whom  ii  leaveth,  to  inherit 
Their  lonelv  lot  of  night  and  nothingness. 

Keen  in  its  edge,  against  the  farthest  light, 
The  cold  calm  earth  its  black  horizon  lifted, 

Though  a  faint  vapour,  which  the  winds  had  sifted 

Like  thin  sea-sand,  in  undulations  white 


THE   BROKEN    CHAIN.  93 

And  multitudinous,  veiled  the  lower  stars. 
And  over  this  there  hung  successive  bars 
Of  crimson  mist,  which  had  no  visible  ending 
But  in  the  eastern  gloom  ;  voiceless  and  still, 

Illimitable  in  their  arched  extending, 

# 
They  kept  their  dwelling  place  in  heaven  ;  the  chill 

Of  the  passing  night-wind  stirred  them  not  ;  the  ascending 

Of  the  keen  summer  moon  was  marked  by  them 
Into  successive  steps  ;  the  plenitude 
Of  pensive  light  was  kindled  and  subdued 

Alternate,  as  her  crescent  keel  did  stem 
Those  waves  of  currentless  cloud,  the  diadem 

Of  her  companion  planet  near  her,  shed 
Keen  quenchless  splendor  down  the  drowsy  air  : 

Glowed  as  she  glowed,  and  followed  where  she  led, 
High  up  the  hill  of  the  night  heaven,  where 
Thin  threads  of  darkness,  braided  like  black  hair, 

"Where  in  long  trembling  tresses  interwoven, 
The  soft  blue  eyes  of  the  superior  deep 
Looked    through    them,   with   the    glance   of    those    wrho 
cannot  weep 

For  sorrow.     Here  and  there  the  veil  was  cloven, 


94  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

By  crossing  of  faint  winds,  whose  wings  did  keep 
Such  cadence  as  the  breath  of  dreamless  sleep 
Among  the  stars,  and  soothed  with  strange  delight 
The  vain  vacuity  of  the  Infinite. 

VII. 

Stiff  as  stone,  and  still  as  death, 

Stood  the  knight  like  one  amazed, 
And  dropped  his  rein,  and  held  his  breath, 

So  anxiously  he  gazed. 
Oh  !  well  might  such  a  scene  and  sun 

Surprise  the  sudden  sight, 
And  yet  his  mien  was  more  of  one 

In  dread  than  in  delight. 
His  glance  was.  not  on  heaven  or  hill, 

On  cloud  or  lightning,  swift  or  still, 
azure  earth  or  orient  air  ; 
But  long  his  fixed  look  did  lie 
On  one  bright  line  of  western  sky, — 

What  saw  he  there  ? 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  95 

VIII. 

On  the  brow  of  a  lordly  line 

Of  chasm-divided  crag,  there  stood 
The  walls  of  Saint  Cecilia's  shrine. 

Above  the  undulating  wood 
Broad  basalt  bulwarks,  stern  and  stiff, 
Ribbed,  like  black  bones,  the  grisly  cliff. 
On  the  torn  summit  stretched  away 
The  convent  walls,  tall,  old,  and  grey  ; 
So  strong  their  ancient  size  did  seem, 

So  stern  their  mountain  seat, 
Well  might  the  passing  pilgrim  deem 

Such  desperate  dwelling  place  more  meet 
For  soldier  true,  or  baron  bold, 
For  army's  guard  or  bandit's  hold, 
Than  for  the  rest,  deep,  calm,  and  cold, 
Of  those  whose  tale  of  troublous  life  is  told. 

IX. 

The  topmost  tower  rose,  narrow  and  tall, 
O'er  the  broad  mass  of  crag  and  wall; 


9G  THE   BROKEN    CHAIN". 

Against  the  streak  of  western  light 

It  raised  its  solitary  height. 

Just  above,  nor  far  aloof, 

From  the  cross  upon  its  roof, 

Sat  a  silver  star. 

The  low  clouds  drifting  fast  and  far, 

Gave,  by  their  own  mocking  loss, 

Motion  to  the  star  and  cross. 

Even  the  black  tower  was  stirred  below 

To  join  the  dim,  mysterious  march, 
The  march  so  strangely  slow. 

Near  its  top  an  opening  arch 
Let  through  a  passage  of  pale  sky 
Enclosed  with  stern  captivity; 
And  in  its  hollow  height  there  hung, 
From  a  black  bar,  a  brazen  bell : 
Its  hugeness  was  traced  clear  and  well 
The  slanting  rays  among. 
Ever  and  anon  it  swung 
Halfway  round  its  whirling  wheel ; 
Back  again,  with  rocking  reel, 


THE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

Lazily  its  length  was  flung, 

Till  brazen  lip  and  beating  tongue. 

Met  once,  with  unrepeated  peal, 

Then  paused  ; — until  the  winds  could  feel 

The  weight  of  the  wide  sound  that  clung 
To  their  inmost  spirit,  like  the  appeal 

Of  startling  memories,  strangely  strung, 
That  point  to  pain,  and  yet  conceal. 

Again  with  single  sway  it  rung, 
And  the  black  tower  beneath  could  feel  • 
The  undulating  tremor  steal 
Through  its  old  stones,  with  long  shiver, 
The  wild  woods  felt  it  creep  and  quiver 
Tli rough  their  thick  leaves  and  bushed  air, 
As  fear  creeps  through  a  murderer's  hair. 
And  the  gray  reeds  beside  the  river, 
In  the  moonlight  meek  and  mild, 
Moved  like  spears  when  war  is  wild. 

x. 

And  still  the  knight  like  statue  stood, 
In  the  arched  opening  of  the  wood. 


98  THE    BROKEN    CHALX. 

Slowly  still  the  brazen  bell 

Marked  its  modulated  knell ; 

Heavily,  heavily,  one  by  one, 

The  dull  strokes  gave  their  thunder  tone. 

So  long  the  pause  between  was  led, 

Ere  one  rose  the  last  was  dead — 

Dead  and  lost  by  hollow  and  hill. 

Again,  again,  it  gathered  still ; 

Ye  who  hear,  peasant  or  peer, 

By  all  you  hope  and  all  you  fear, 

Lowly  now  be  heart  and  knee, 
Meekly  be  your  orison  said 

For  the  body  in  its  agony, 
And  the  spirit  in  its  dread. 

XI. 

Reverent  as  a  cowled  monk 

The  knight  before  the  cross  had  sunk ; 

Just  as  he  bowed  his  helmless  head, 

Twice  the  bell  struck  faint  and  dead, 

And  ceased.     Hill,  valley,  and  winding  shore 

The  rising  roll  received  no  more. 


THE   BROKEN    CHAIN.  99 

His  lips  were  weak,  his  words  were  low, 
A  paleness  came  across  his  brow  ; 
He  started  to  his  feet,  in  fear 
Of  something  that  he  seemed  to  hear. 
Was  it  the  wrest  wind  that  did  feign 
Articulation  strange  and  vain  ? 
Vainly  with  thine  ear  thou  warrest  : 

Lo  !  it  comes,  it  comes  again  ! 

Through  the  dimly  woven  forest 

Comes  the  cry  of  one  in  pain — 
"  May  the  faith  thou  hast  forgotten 

Bind  thee  with  its  broken  chain. " 


PART    THIRD. 

I. 
On  grey  Amboise's  rocks  and  keep 
The  early  shades  of  evening  sleep, 
And  veils  of  mist,  white-folded,  fall 
Round  his  long  range  of  iron  wall  ; 
O'er  the  last  line  of  withering  light 
The  quick  bats  cut  with  angled  flight. 


100  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN*. 

And  the  low  breathing  fawns  that  rest 

The  twilight  forest  through, 
Each  on  his  starry  flank  and  stainless  breast 

Can  feel  the  coolness  of  the  dew 
Soothing  his  sleep  with  heavenly  weight : 
Who  are  these  who  tread  so  late 
Beyond  Amboise's  castle  gate, 

And  seek  the  garden  shade  ? 
The  flowers  are  closed,  the  paths  are  dark, 
Their  marble  guards  look  stern  and  stark, 
The  birds  arc  still,  the  leaves  are  stayed, 
On  windless  bough,  and  sunless  glade. 
Ah  !  who  are  these  that  walk  so  late, 
Beyond  Amboise's  castle  gate  ? 

II. 
Steep  down  the  river's  margin  sink 

The  gardens  oi  Amboise, 
And  all  their  inmost  thickets  drink 

The  wide,  low  water-voice. 
By  many  a  bank  whose  blossoms  shrink 


THE   BROKEX   CHAIN.  101 

Amidst  sweet  herbage  young  and  cold, 
Through  many  an  arch  and  avenue, 
That  noontide  roofs  with  checkered  blue, 

And  paves  with  fluctuating  gold, 
Pierced  by  a  thousand  paths  that  guide 
Grey  echo-haunted  rocks  beside, 
And  into  caves  of  cool  recess, 
Which  ever-falling  fountains  dress 
With  emerald  veils,  dashed  deep  in  clew, 
And  through  dim  thickets  that  subdue 

The  crimson  light  of  flowers  afar, 
As  sweet  rain  doth  the  sunset,  decked 

Themselves  with  many  a  living  star, 
Which  music  winged  bees  detect 
By  the  white  rays  and  ceaseless  odor  shed 
Over  the  scattered  leaves  that  every  day  lays  dead. 


in. 

But  who  are  these  that  pass  so  late 
Beneath  Amboise's  echoing  gate, 


102  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

And  seek  the  sweet  path,  poplar-shaded, 
By  breeze  and  moonbeam  uninvaded  ? 
They  are  two  forms,  that  move  like  one, 

Each  to  the  music  of  the  other's  lips, 
The  cold  night  thrilling  with  the  tone 

Of  their  low  words — the  grey  eclipse, 
Cast  from  the  tangled  boughs  above. 
Their  dark  eyes  penetrate  with  love  ; 

Two  forms,  one  crested,  calm,  and  proud, 
Yet  with  bowed  head,  and  gentle  ear  inclining 

To  her  who  moves  as  in  a  sable  cloud 
Of  her  own  waving  hair — the  star-flowers  shining 

Through  its  soft  waves,  like  planets  when  they  keep 

Reflected  watch  beneath  the  sunless  deep. 

IT. 

Her  brow  is  pure  and  pale,  her  eyes 

Deep  as  the  unfathomed  sky, 
Her  lips,  from  which  the  sweet  words  rise 
Like  flames  from  incensed  sacrifice, 

Quiver  with  untold  thoughts,  that  lie 


THE   BROKEN    CHAIN".  103 


Burning  beneath  their  crimson  glow, 
As  mute  and  deathless  lightnings  sleep 
At  sunset,  where  the  dyes  are  deep 

On  Bosa's  purple  snow  ; 
She  moves  all  beautiful  and  bright, 
With  little  in  that  form  of  light 
To  set  the  seal  of  mortal  birth, 
Or  own  her  earthy — of  the  earth, 
Unless  it  be  one  strange  quick  trace 
That  checks  the  glory  of  her  face, 
A  wayward  meaning,  dimly  shed, 
A  shadow,  scarcely  felt,  ere  fled  ; 
A  spot  upon  the  brow,  a  spark 
Under  those  eyes  subdued  and  dark ; 
A  low  short  discord  in  the  tone 
Of  music  round  her  being  thrown  ; 
A  mystery  more  conceived  than  seen  ; 
A  wildness  of  the  word  and  mien  ; 
The  sign  of  wilder  work  within, 
Which  may  be  sorrow — must  be  sin. 


104  THE    BROKEN   CHAIN. 

V. 

Slowly  they  moved  that  knight  and  dame, 
Where  hanging  thickets  quench  and  tame 

The  rivers  flash  and  cry  ; 
Mellowed  among  the  leafage  came 
Its  thunder  voice — its  flakes  of  flame 

Drifted  undisturbing  by, 

Sunk  to  a  twilight  and  a  sigh. 
Their  path  was  o'er  the  entangled  rest 

Of  dark  night  flowers  that  underneath 
Their  feet  as  their  dim  bells  were  j^ressed, 

Sent  up  warm  pulses  of  soft  breath. 
Ranged  in  sepulchral  ranks  above, 
Grey  spires  of  shadowy  cypress  clove, 
With  many  a  shaft  of  sacred  gloom, 
The  evening  heaven's  mysterious  dome  ; 
Slowly  above  their  columns  keen 
Rolled  on  its  path  that  starred  serene  ; 
A  thousand  fountains  soundless  flow 
With  imaged  azure  moved  below  ; 


THE   BROKEN    CHAIN.  105 

And  through  the  grove  and  o'er  the  tide 
Pale  forms  appeared  to  watch,  to  glide, 
O'er  whose  faint  limbs  the  evening  sky 
Had  cast  like  life  its  crimson  dye  ; 
Was  it  not  life — so  bright — so  weak — 
That  flushed  the  bloodless  brow  and  cheek, 
And  bade  the  lips  of  wreathed  stone 
Kindle  to  all  but  breath  and  tone  ? 
It  moved — it  heaved — that  stainless  breast  ! 
Ah  !  what  can  break  such  marble  rest  ? 
It  was  a  shade  that  passed — a  shade, 
It  was  not  bird  nor  bough  that  made, 
Nor  dancing  leaf,  nor  falling  fruit, 

For  where  it  moves — that  shadow,  gray  and  chill, 
The  birds  are  lulled — the  leaves  are  mute — 

The  air  is  cold  and  still. 

VI. 

Slowly  they  moved,  that  dame  and  knight, 
As  one  by  one  the  stars  grew  bright ; 
Fondly  they  moved — they  did  not  mark 
They  had  a  follower  strange  and  dark. 


106  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

Just  where  the  leaves  their  feet  disturbed 

Sunk  from  their  whispering  tune, 
(It  seemed  beneath  a  fear  that  curbed 

Their  motion  very  soon), 
A  shadow  fell  upon  them,  cast 
By  a  less  visible  form  that  passed 

Between  them  and  the  moon. 
Was  it  a  fountain's  falling  shiver  ? 

It  moveth  on — it  will  not  stay — 
Was  it  a  mist  wreath  of  the  river  ? 

The  mist  hath  melted  all  away, 
And  the  risen  moon  is  full  and  clear, 
And  the  moving  shadow  is  marked  and  near. 
See  !  where  the  dead  leaves  felt  it  pass, 
There  are  footsteps  left  on  the  bended  grass — 
Footsteps  as  of  an  armed  heel, 
Heavy  with  links  of  burning  steel. 


VII. 

Fondly  they  moved,  that  dame  and  knight, 
By  the  gliding  river's  billow  light, 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN".  107 

Their  lips  were  mute,  their  hands  were  given, 

Their  hearts  did  hardly  stir, 
The  maid  had  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven, 

But  his  were  fallen  on  her. 
They  did  not  heed,  they  did  not  fear 
That  follower  strange  that  trod  so  near, 
An  armed  form  whose  cloudy  mail 
Flashed  as  it  moved  with  radiance  pale  ; 
So  gleams  the  moonlit  torrent  through 
It's  glacier's  deep  transparent  blue  ; 
Quivering  and  keen  its  steps  of  pride 
Shook  the  sheathed  lightning  at  its  side, 
And  waved  its  dark  and  drifted  plume, 
Like  fires  that  haunt  the  unholy  tomb 
Where  cursed  with  crime  the  mouldering  dead, 
Lie  restless  in  their  robes  of  lead. 
What  eye  shall  seek,  what  soul  can  trace 
The  deep  death-horror  of  its  face  ? 
The  trackless,  livid  smile  that  played 
Beneath  the  casque's  concealing  shade  * 
The  angered  eye's  unfathomed  glare, 
(So  sleep  the  fountains  of  despair, 


108  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

Beneath  the  soul  whose  sins  unseal, 

The  wells  of  all  it  fears  to  feel.) 

The  sunk,  unseen,  all-seeing  gloom, 

Scarred  with  the  ravage  of  the  tomb, 

The  passions  that  made  life  their  prey, 

Fixed  on  the  feature's  last  decay, 

The  pangs  that  made  the  human  heart  their  slave, 

Frozen  on  the  changeless  aspect  of  the  grave. 


VIII. 

And  still  it  followed  where  they  went, 

That  unregarding  pair  ; 
It  kept  on  them  its  eyes  intent, 

And  from  their  glance  the  sickened  air 
Shrank,  as  if  tortured.     Slow,  how  slow, 

The  knight  and  lady  trod  ; 
You  had  heard  their  hearts  beat  just  as  loud 

As  their  footsteps  on  the  sod. 
They  paused  at  length  in  a  leafless  place, 
Where  the  moonlight  shone  on  the  maiden's  face  ; 


THE   BROKEN    CHAIN.  109 

Still  as  an  image  of  stone  she  stood, 

Though  the  heave  of  her  breath,  and  the  beat  of  her 

blood 
Murmured  and  mantled  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  billows  that  heave  on  a  hill  of  snow, 
When  the  midnight  winds  are  short  and  low. 
The  words  of  her  lover  came  burning  and  deep, 

And  his  hand  was  raised  to  the  holy  sky ; 
Can  the  lamps  of  the  universe  bear  or  keep, 

False  witness  or  record  on  high  ? 
He  starts  to  his  feet  from  the  spot  where  he  knelt, 
What  voice  hath  he  heard,  what  fear  hath  he  felt  ? 
His  lips  in  their  silence  are  bloodless  and  dry, 
And  the  love-light  fails  from  his  glazed  eye. 

IX. 

Well  might  he  quail,  for  full  displayed 
Before  him  rose  that  dreadful  shade, 
And  o'er  his  mute  and  trembling  trance 
Waved  its  pale  crest  and  quivering  lance  ; 
And  traced,  with  pangs  of  sudden  pain, 
The  form  of  words  upon  his  brain  ; 


110  THE   BROKEN    CHALET. 

"  Thy  vows  are  deep,  but  still  thou  bears't  the  chain, 
Cast  on  thee  by  a  deeper — vowed  in  vain ; 
Thy  love  is  fair,  but  fairer  forms  are  laid, 
Cold  and  forgotten,  in  the  cypress  shade  ; 
Thy  arm  is  strong,  but  arms  of  stronger  trust, 
Eepose  unnerved,  undreaded  in  the  dust ; 
Around  thy  lance  shall  bend  the  living  brave, 
Then  arm  thee  for  the  challenge  of  the  grave." 


The  sound  had  ceased,  the  shape  had  passed  away, 

Silent  the  air  and  pure  the  planet's  ray. 

They  stood  beneath  the  lonely  breathing  night, 

The  lovely  lady  and  the  lofty  knight  ; 

He  moved  in  shuddering  silence  by  her  side, 

Or  wild  and  wandering  to  her  words  replied, 

Shunning  her  anxious  eyes  on  his  that  bent : 

Thou  didst  not  see  it,  'twas  to  me  'twas  sent. 

To  me, — but  why  to  me  ? — I  knew  it  not, 

It  was  no  dream,  it  stood  upon  the  spot, 


THE    BROKEN    CHAIN.  Ill 

Where  " —  Then  with  lighter  tone  and  bitter  smile, 
"Nothing,  beloved, — a  pang  that  did  beguile 
My  spirit  of  its  strength,  a  dream,  a  thought, 
A  fancy  of  the  night."     And  though  she  sought 
More  reason  of  his  dread,  he  heard  her  not, 
For,  mingling  with  those  words  of  phantom  fear, 
There  was  another  echo  in  his  ear, 
An  under  murmur  deep  and  clear, 
The  faint  low  sob  of  one  in  pain, 
"  May  the  faith  thou  hast  forgotten 
Bind  thee  with  its  broken  chain." 


PART   FOURTH. 

I. 

'Tis  morn  ! — in  clustered  rays  increased — 
Exulting  rays,  that  deeply  drink 

The  starlight  of  the  East, 
And  strew  with  crocus  dyes  the  brink 
Of  those  blue  streams  that  pause  and  sink 


112  THE   BROKEN   CHAIX. 

Far  underneath  their  heavenly  strand — 

Soft  capes  of  vapour,  ribbed  like  sand. 

Along  the  Loire  white  sails  are  flashing, 

Through  stars  of  spray  their  dark  oars  dashing  ; 

The  rocks  are  reddening  one  by  one, 

The  purple  sandbanks  flushed  with  sun, 

And  crowned  with  fire  on  crags  and  keep, 

Amboise  !   above  thy  lifted  steep, 

Far  lightning  o'er  the  subject  vale, 

Blaze  thy  broad  range  of  ramparts  pale  ! 

Through  distance  azure  as  the  sky, 

That  vale  sends  up  its  morning  cry. 

From  countless  leaves,  that  shaking  shade 

Its  tangled  paths  of  pillared  glade, 

And  ceaseless  fan,  with  quivering  cool, 

Each  gentle  stream  and  slumbrous  pool, 

That  catch  the  leaf-song  as  they  flow, 

In  tinkling  echo  pure  and  low. 

Clear,  deep,  and  moving,  as  the  night, 

And  starred  with  orbs  of  lily  light. 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  113 

Nor  are  they  loaves  alone  that  sing, 

Nor  waves  alone  that  flow  ; 
The  leaves  arc  lifted  on  the  wing 

Of  voices  from  below  ; 
The  waters  keep,  with  shade  subdued* 
The  image  of  a  multitude — 

A  merry  crowd  promiscuous  met, 
Of  every  age  and  heart  united — 

Gray  hairs  with  golden  twined,  and  yet 
With  equal  mien  and  eyes  delighted, 
With  thoughts  that  mix,  and  hands  that  lock. 
Behold  they  tread,  with  hurrying  feet, 
Along  the  thousand  paths  that  meet 

Beneath  Amboise's  rock  ; 
For  there  upon  the  meadows  wide, 
That  couch  along  the  river-side, 

Are  pitched  a  snowy  flock 
Of  warrior  tents,  like  clouds  that  rest, 
Through  champaigns  of  the  quiet  west, 
When,  far  in  distance,  stretched  serene, 
The  evening  sky  lies  calm  and  green. 


114  THE   BROKEN"   CHAIN. 

Amboise's  lord  must  bear  to-day 

His  love-gage  through  the  rival  fray ; 

Through  all  the  coasts  of  fiery  France 

His  challenge  shook  the  air, 
That  none  could  break  so  true  a  lance, 

Nor  for  a  dame  so  fair. 

II. 

The  lists  are  circled  round  with  shields, 

Like  lily-leaves  that  lie 
On  forest  pools  in  clustered  fields 

Of  countless  company. 
But  every  buckler's  bosses  black 
Dash  the  full  beams  of  morning  back, 
In  orbed  wave  of  welded  lines, 
With  mingled  blaze  of  crimson  signs, 

And  light  of  lineage  high  : 
As  sounds  that  gush  when  thoughts  are  strong, 

But  words  arc  weak  with  tears, 
Awoke,  above  the  warrior  throng, 

The  wind  among  the  spears ; 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIH.  115 

Afar  in  hollow  surge  they  shook, 
As  reeds  along  some  summer  brook, 
Glancing  beneath  the  July  moon, 
All  bowed  and  touched  in  pleasant  tune  ; 
Their  steely  lightning  passed  and  played 
Alternate  with  the  cloudy  shade 
Of  crested  casques,  and  flying  flakes 
Of  horse-manes,  twined  like  sable  snakes. 
And  misty  plumes  in  darkness  drifted, 
And  charged  banners  broadly  lifted, 
Purpling  the  air  with  storm-tints  cast 
Down  through  their  undulation  vast, 
Wide  the  billowy  army  strevfing, 

Like  to  flags  of  victory 
From  some  wretched  Armada's  ruin, 

Left  to  robe  the  sea. 

in. 
As  the  morning  star  new  risen 

In  a  circle  of  calm  sky, 
Where  the  white  clouds  stand  to  listen 

For  the  sphered  melody 


116  THE    BKOKEtf   CHAIN. 

Of  her  planetary  path, 
And  her  soft  rays  pierce  the  wrath 
Of  the  night  storms  stretched  below, 
Till  they  sink  like  wreaths  of  snow, 
(Lighting  heaven  with  their  decay) 

Into  sudden  silentness — 

Throned  above  the  stormy  stress 
Of  that  knightly  host's  array, 

Goddess-formed,  as  one  whom  mortals 
Need  but  gaze  on  to  obey, 

Distant  seen,  as  through  the  portals 
Of  some  temple  gray  ; 

The  glory  of  a  marble  dream, 
Kindling  the  eyes  that  gaze,  the  lips  that  pray- 

One  gentle  lady  sat,  retiring  but  supreme. 

IV. 

Upon  her  brow  there  was  no  crown, 

Upon  her  robe  no  gem  ; 
Yet  few  were  there  who  would  not  own 

Her  queen  of  earth,  and  them, 


THE    BROKEN    CHAIN.  117 

Because  that  brow  was  crowned  with  light 

As  with  a  diadem, 
And  her  quick  thoughts,  as  they  did  rise, 
"Were  in  the  deep  change  of  her  eyes, 

Traced  one  by  one,  as  stars  that  start 
Out  of  the  orbed  peace  of  night, 

Still  drooping  as  they  dart, 
And  her  sweet  limbs  shone  heavenly  bright, 
Following  with  undulation  white, 

The  heaving  of  her  heart. 

High  she  sat,  and  all  apart, 
Meek  of  mien,  with  eyes  declined, 
Less  like  one  of  mortal  mind. 
Than  some  changeless  spirit  shrined 

In  the  memories  of  men, 
Whom  the  passions  of  its  kind 

Cannot  hurt  nor  move  again. 
v. 
High  she  sat  in  meekness  shaming, 

All  of  best  and  brighest  there, 
Till  the  herald's  voice,  proclaiming 


118  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

Her  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Bang  along  the  morning  air  ; 
And  then  she  started,  and  that  shade, 
Which  in  the  moonlit  garden  glade 
Had  marked  her  with  its  mortal  stain, 
Did  pass  upon  her  face  again, 
And  in  her  eye  a  sudden  flash 
Came  and  was  gone  ;  but  it  were  rash 
To  say  if  it  were  pride  or  pain  ; 
And  on  her  lips  a  smile,  scarce  worn, 
Less,  as  it  seemed,  of  joy  than  scorn. 
Was  with  a  strange  quick  quivering  mixed, 
Which  passed  away,  and  left  them  fixed 
In  calm,  persisting,  colorless, 
Perchance  too  perfect  to  be  peace 
A  moment  more,  and  still  serene 
Beturned,  yet  changed — her  mood  and  mien 
What  eye  that  traceless  change  could  tell, 
Slight,  transient, — but  unspeakable  ! 
She  Bat,  divine  of  soul  and  brow; 
It  passed,  —and  all  is  human  now 


THE    BROKEN    CHAIN.  119 

VI. 

The  multitude,  with  loud  acclaim, 

Caught  up  the  lovely  lady's  name  ; 

Thrice  round  the  lists  arose  the  cry  ; 

But  when  it  sunk,  and  all  the  sky 

Grew  doubly  silent  by  its  loss, 

A  slow  strange  murmur  came  across 

The  waves  of  the  reposing  air, 

A  deep,  soft  voice  that  everywhere 

Arose  at  once,  so  lowly  clear, 

That  each  seemed  in  himself  to  hear 

Alone,  and  fixed  with  sweet  surprise, 

Did  ask  around  him,  with  his  eyes, 

If  t'were  not  some  dream-music  dim 

And  false,  that  only  rose  for  him. 

VII. 

"  Oh,  lady  Queen, — Oh,  lady  Queen  ! 
Fairest  of  all  who  tread 
The  soft  earth  carpet  green, 
Or  breathe  the  blessings  shed 


120  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

By  the  stars  and  tempest  free  ; 
Know  thou,  oh,  lady  Queen, 
Earth  hath  borne,  sun  hath  seen, 

Fairer  than  thee. 
"  The  flush  of  beauty  burnetii 

In  the  j)alaces  of  earth, 
But  thy  lifted  spirit  scorneth 

All  match  of  mortal  birth  : 
And  the  nymph  of  the  hill, 

And  the  naiad  of  the  sea, 
Were  of  beauty  quenched  and  chill, 

Beside  thee  ! 
"  Where  the  gray  cypress  shadows 

Move  onward  with  the  moon, 
Round  the  low  mounded  meadows, 

And  the  grave-stones,  whitely  hewn. 
Gleam  like  camp-fires  through  the  night, 

There,  in  silence  of  long  swoon, 

In  the  horror  of  decay  ; 
With  the  worm  for  their  delight, 

And  the  shroud  for  their  array, 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN".  121 

With  the  garland  on  their  brow, 

And  the  black  cross  by  their  side, 
With  the  darkness  for  their  beauty, 

And  the  dust  for  their  pride, 
With  the  smile  of  baffled  pain 

On  the  cold  lips  half  apart, 
With  the  dimness  on  the  brain, 

And  the  peace  upon  the  heart ; 
Even  sunk  in  solemn  shade, 

Underneath  the  cypress  tree, 
Lady  Queen,  there  are  laid 

Fairer  than  thee  ! " 

Till. 

It  passed  away,  that  melodie, 
But  none  the  minstrel  there  could  see  ; 
The  lady  sat  still  calm  of  thought, 
Save  that  there  rose  a  narrow  spot 

Of  crimson  on  her  cheek ; 
But  then,  the  words  were  far  and  weak, 
Perchance  she  heard  them  not. 
The  crowd  still  listening,  feared  to  speak, 


122  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

And  only  mixed  in  sympathy 

Of  pressing  hand  and  wondering  eve, 

And  left  the  lists  all  hushed  and  mute, 
For  every  wind  of  heaven  had  sunk 

To  that  aerial  lute. 
The  ponderous  banners,  closed  and  shrunk, 
Down  from  their  listless  lances  hung, 
The  windless  plumes  were  feebly  flung. 
With  lifted  foot,  the  listening  steed, 

Did  scarcely  fret  the  fern, 
And  the  challenger  on  his  charmed  steed 

Sat  statue-like  and  stern, 
Till  mixed  with  martial  trumpet-strain, 
The  herald's  voice  arose  again, 
Proclaiming  that  Amboise's  lord 
Dared  by  the  trial  of  the  sword. 
The  bravest  knights  of  France,  to  prove 
Their  fairer  dame  or  truer  love, — 
And  ere  the  brazen  blast  had  died, 
That  strange  sweet  singing  voice  replied, 
So  wild  that  every  heart  did  keep 
Its  pulse  to  time  the  cadence  deep  : 


THE   BROKEN    CHAIN".  123 


IX. 


:<  Where  the  purple  swords  are  swiftest, 

And  the  rage  of  death  unreigned. 
Lord  of  battle,  though  thou  liftest 

Crest  unstooped,  and  shield  unstained, 
Vain  before  thy  footsteps  fail, 
Useless  spear  and  rended  mail, 
Shuddering  from  thy  glance  and  blow, 
Earth's  best  armies  sink  like  snow  ; 
Know  thou  this  ;  unmatched,  unmet, 
Might  hath  children  mightier  yet. 


The  chapel  yaults  are  deadly  damp, 

Their  air  is  breathless  all, 
The  downy  bats  they  clasp  and  cramp 

Their  cold  wings  to  the  wall  ; 
The  bright-eyed  eft,  from  cranny  and  cleft, 

Doth  noiselessly  pursue 
The  twining  light  of  the  death-worms  white, 

In  the  pools  of  the  earth  dew  ; 


124  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

The  downy  bat, — the  death-worm  white, 

And  the  eft  with  its  sahle  coil — 
The}7  are  company  good  for  a  sword ed  knight. 

In  his  rest  from  the  battle  toil ; 
The  sworded  knight  is  sunk  in  rest, 

With  the  cross-hilt  in  his  hand  ; 
But  his  arms  are  folded  o'er  his  breast 

As  weak  as  ropes  of  sand. 
His  eyes  are  dark,  his  sword  of  wrath 

Is  impotent  and  dim  ; 
Dark  lord,  in  this  thy  victor  path, 

Remember  him." 

x. 
The  sounds  sunk  deeply, — and  were  gone, 

And  for  a  time  the  quiet  crowd 
Hung  on  the  long  departing  tone, 

Of  wailing  in  the  morning  cloud, 
In  spirit  wondering  and  beguiled  ; 

Then  turned  with  steadfast  gaze  to  learn 
What  recked  he,  of  such  warning  wild — 

Amboise's  champion  stern. 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN".  12^ 

But  little  to  their  sight  betrayed 

The  yisor  bars  and  plumage  shade  ; 

The  nearest  thought  he  smiled  ; 

Yet  more  in  bitterness  than  mirth, 

And  held  his  eyes  upon  the  earth 

With  thoughtful  gaze,  half  sad,  half  keen, 

As  they  would  seek  beneath  the  screen 

Of  living  turf  and  golden  bloom, 

The  secrets  of  its  under  tomb. 

XI. 

A  moment  more,  with  burning  look, 
High  in  the  air  his  plume  he  shook, 
And  waved  his  lance  as  in  disdain, 
And  struck  his  charger  with  the  rein, 
And  loosed  the  sword-hilt  to  his  grasp, 
And  closed  the  visor's  grisly  clasp, 
And  all  expectant  sate  and  still ; 
The  herald  blew  his  summons  shrill, 
Keen  answer  rose  from  list  and  tent, 
For  France  had  there  her  bravest  sent. 


126  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN* 

With  hearts  of  steel,  and  eyes  of  flame, 
Full  armed  the  knightly  concourse  came  ; 
They  came  like  storms  of  heaven  set  free, 
They  came  like  surges  of  the  sea, 

Kesistless,  dark  and  dense, 
Like  surges  on  a  sable  rock, 
They  fell  with  their  own  fiery  shock, 

Dashed  into  impotence. 
O'er  each  encounters  rush  and  gloom, 
Like  meteor  .rose  Amboise's  plume, 
As  stubble  to  his  calm  career  ; 
Crashed  from  his  breast  the  splintered  spear, 
Before  his  charge  the  war-horse  reeled, 
And  bowed  the  helm,  and  sunk  the  shield, 
And  checked  the  heart,  and  failed  the  arm  ; 
And  still  the  herald's  loud  alarm 

Disturbed  the  short  delay — 
On,  chevaliers  !  for  fame,  for  love, — 
For  these  dark  eyes  that  burn  above 

The  field  of  your  affray  ! 


THE   BROKEN"   CHAIN.  127 

XII. 

Six  knights  had  fallen,  the  last  in  death, — 

Deeply  the  challenger  drew  his  breath. 

The  field  was  hushed, — the  wind  that  rocked 

His  standard  staff  grew  light  and  low. 
A  seventh  came  not.     He  unlocked 

His  yisor  clasp,  and  raised  his  brow 
To  catch  its  coolness.     Marvel  not 
If  it  were  pale  with  weariness, 
For  fast  that  day  his  hand  had  wrought 

Its  warrior  work  of  victory  ; 
Yet,  one  who  loved  him  might  have  thought 

There  was  a  trouble  in  his  eye, 
And  that  it  turned  in  some  distress 

Unto  the  quiet  sky. 
Indeed  that  sky  was  strangely  still, 
And  through  the  air  unwonted  chill 

Hung  on  the  heat  of  noon  ; 
Men  spoke  in  whispers,  and  their  words 
Came  brokenly,  as  if  the  chords 

Of  their  hearts  were  out  of  tune  ; 


128  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

And  deeper  still,  and  vet  more  deep 
The  coldness  of  that  heavy  sleep 
Came  on  the  lulled  air.     And  men  saw 
In  every  glance,  an  answering  awe 
Meeting  their  own  with  doubtful  change 
Of  expectation  wild  and  strange. 
Dread  marvel  was  it  thus  to  feel 
The  echoing  earth,  the  trumpet-peal, 
The  thundering  hoof,  the  crashing  steel, 

Cease  to  a  pause  so  dead, 
They  heard  the  aspens  moaning  shiver, 
And  the  low  tinkling  of  the  river 

Upon  its  pebble  bed. 
The  challenger's  trump  rang  long  and  loud, 
And  the  light  upon  his  standard  proud 

Grew  indistinct  and  dun  ; 
The  challenger's  trump  rang  long  and  loud, 
And  the  shadow  of  a  narrow  cloud 

Came  suddenly  o'er  the  sun. 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  129 


XIII. 


A  narrow  cloud  of  outline  quaint, 

Much  like  a  human  hand  ; 
And  after  it,  with  following  faint, 

Came  up  a  dull  grey  lengthening  band 

Of  small  cloud  billows,  like  sea  sand, 
And  then  out  of  the  gaps  of  blue, 
Left  moveless  in  the  sky,  there  grew 
Long  snaky  knots  of  sable  mist, 
Which  counter  winds  did  vex  and  twist, 
Knitted  and  loosed,  and  tossed  and  tore, 
Like  passive  weeds  on  that  sandy  shore  ; 
And  these  seemed  with  their  touch  to  infect 
The  sweet  white  upper  clouds,  and  checked 
Their  pacing  on  the  heavenly  floor, 

And  quenched  the  light  which  was  to  them 
As  blood  and  life,  singing  the  while 

A  fitful  requiem, 
Until  the  hues  of  each  cloud  isle 

Sank  into  one  vast  veil  of  dread, 

Coping  the  heaven  as  if  with  lead, 


130  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

With  drag'd  pale  edges  here  and  there, 
Through  which  the  noon's  transparent  glare 

Fell  with  a  dusky  red. 
And  all  the  summer  voices  sank 

To  let  that  darkness  pass ; 
The  weeds  were  quiet  on  the  bank, 

The  cricket  in  the  grass  ; 
The  merry  birds  the  buzzing  flies, 

The  leaves  of  many  lips, 
Did  make  their  songs  a  sacrifice 

Unto  the  noon  eclipse. 

XIV. 

The  challenger's  trump  rang  long  and  loud — 

Hark  !  as  its  notes  decay  ! 
Was  it  out  of  the  earth — or  up  in  the  cloud  ? — 

Or  an  echo  far  away  ? 
Soft  it  came  and  none  knew  whence — 
Deep,  melodious  and  intense, 

So  lightly  breathed,  bo  wildly  blown, 
Distant  it  seemed — yet  everywhere 
Possessing  all  the  infinite  air — 

One  quivering  trumpet  tone  ! 


THE   BROKEN"   CHAIN".  131 

With  slow  increase  of  gathering  sway, 
Louder  along  the  wind  it  lay  ; 
It  shook  the  woods,  it  pressed  the  wave, 
The  guarding  rocks  through  chasm  and  cave 

Koared  in  their  fierce  reply. 
It  rose,  and  o'er  the  lists  at  length 
Crashed  into  full  tempestuous  strength, 
Shook  through  its  storm-tried  turrets  high 

Amboise's  mountain  home, 
And  the  broad  thunder-vaulted  sky 

Clanged  like  a  brazen  dome. 

XY. 

Unchanged,  unchilled  in  heart  and  eye  ; 
The  challenger  heard  that  dread  reply  ; 
His  head  was  bowed  upon  his  breast, 
And  on  the  darkness  in  the  west 
His  glance  dwelt  patiently  ;  * 

Out  of  that  western  gloom  there  came 
A  small  white  vapor,  shaped  like  flame, 
TTnscattering,  and  on  constant  wing  ; 
Rode  lonely,  like  a  living  thing, 


132  TIIE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

Upon  its  stormy  path  ;  it  grew, 
And  gathered  as  it  onward  drew — 
It  paused  above  the  lists,  a  roof 
Inwoven  with  a  lightning  woof 
Of  undulating  lire,  whose  trace, 
Like  corpse-fire  on  a  human  face, 
Was  mixed  of  light  and  death  ;  it  sank 
Slowly  ;  the  wild  war-horses  shrank 

Tame  from  the  nearing  flash  ;  their  eyes 
Glared  the  blue  terror  back,  it  shone 
On  the  broad  spears,  like  wavering  wan 

Of  unaccepted  sacrifice. 
Down  to  the  earth  the  smoke-cloud  rolled- 
Pale  shadowed  through  sulphurous  fold, 
Banner  and  armor,  spear  and  plume 
Gleamed  like  a  vision  of  the  tomb. 
One  form  alone  was  all  of  gloom — 
In  deep  and  dusky  arms  arrayed, 
Changeless  alike  through  flash  and  shade, 
Sudden  within  the  barrier  gate 
Behold,  the  Seventh  champion  sate  ! 


THE    BROKEX    CHAIN.  133 

He  waved  his  hand — he  stooped  his  lance — 
The  challenger  started  from  his  trance  ; 

He  plunged  his  spur — he  loosed  his  rein — 
A  flash — a  groan — a  woman's  cry — 
And  up  to  the  receiving  sky 

The  white  cloud  rose  again  ! 

XVI. 

The  white  cloud  rose — the  white  cloud  fled — 

The  peace  of  heaven  returned  in  dew, 
And  soft  and  far  the  noontide  shed 

Its  holiness  of  bine. 
The  rock,  the  earth,  the  wave,  the  brake 

Rejoiced  beneath  that  sweet  succeeding  ; 
No  sun  nor  sound  can  warm  or  wake 

One  human  heart's  unheeding. 
Stretched  on  the  dark  earth's  bosom,  chill, 
Amboise's  lord  lay  stark  and  still. 
The  heralds  raise  him,  but  to  mark 
The  last  light  leave  his  eyeballs  dark — 


134  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

The  lust  blood  dwindle  on  his  cheek — 
They  turned  ;  a  murmur  wild  and  weak 

Passed  on  the  air,  in  passion  broken, 
The  faint  low  sob  of  one  in  pain — 

"  Lo  !  the  faith  thou  hast  forgotten 
Binds  thee  with  its  broken  chain  ! " 


PART  FIFTH. 
I. 
The  mists,  that  mark  the  day's  decline, 

Have  cooled  and  lulled  the  purple  air ; 
The  bell,  from  Saint  Cecilia's  shrine, 

Hath  tolled  the  evening  hour  of  prayer  ; 
With  folded  veil,  and  eyes  that  shed 
Faint  rays  along  the  stones  they  tread, 
And  bosom  stooped,  and  step  subdued, 
Came  forth  that  ancient  sisterhood  ; 
Each  bearing  on  her  lips  along 
Part  of  the  surge  of  a  low  song, — 
A  wailing  requiem,  wildly  mixed 

"With  suppliant  cry,  how  weak  to  win, 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  135 

From  home  so  far — from  fate  so  fixed, 

A  Spirit  dead  in  sin  ! 
Yet  yearly  must  they  meet,  and  pray 

For  her  who  died — how  long  ago  ? 

How  long — 'twere  only  Love  could  know  ; 
And  she,  ere  her  departing  day, 
Had  watched  the  last  of  Love's  decay ; 
Had  felt  upon  her  fading  cheek 

None  but  a  stranger's  sighs ; 
Had  none  but  stranger  souls  to  seek 

Her  death-thoughts  in  her  eyes  ; 
Had  none  to  guard  her  couch  of  clay, 

Or  trim  her  funeral  stone, 
Save  those,  who,  when  she  passed  away, 

Felt  not  the  more  alone. 

ii. 

And  years  had  seen  that  narrow  spot 
Of  death-sod  levelled  and  forgot, 
Ere  question  came  of  record  kept, 
Or  how  she  died — or  where  she  slept. 


136  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

The  night  was  wild,  the  moon  was  late — 
A  lady  sought  the  convent  gate  ; 
The  midnight  chill  was  on  her  breast, 

The  dew  was  on  her  hair, 
And  in  her  eye  there  was  unrest, 

And  on  her  brow  despair  ; 
She  came  to  seek  the  face,  she  said, 

Of  one  deep  injured.     One  by  one 
The  gentle  sisters  came,  and  shed 

The  meekness  of  their  looks  upon 
Her  troubled  watch.      "  I  know  them  not, 

I  know  them  not,"  she  murmured  still  : 
"Are  then  her  face — her  form  forgot  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  we  lose  not  when  we  will 
The  thoughts  of  an  accomplished  ill ; 
The  image  of  our  love  may  fade, 
But  what  can  quench  a  victim's  shade  ? 

in. 

"  She  comes  not  yet.     She  will  not  come. 
I  seek  her  chamber  ;  "  and  she  rose 


THE    BROKEN    CHAIN.  137 

With  a  quick  start  of  grief,  which  some 
Would  have  restrained  ;  but  the  repose 

Of  her  pale  brow  rebuked  them.     "  Back," 
She  cried,  "the  path, — the  place, — I  know, — 

Follow  me  not — though  broad  and  black 

The  night  lies  on  that  lonely  track. 

There  moves  forever  by  my  side 

A  darker  spirit  for  my  guide  ; 

A  broader  curse — a  wilder  woe, 

Must  gird  my  footsteps  as  I  go." 


IV. 

Sternly  she  spoke,  and,  shuddering,  sought 
The  cloister  arches,  marble-wrought, 
That  send,  through  many  a  trembling  shaft 
The  deep  wind's  full,  melodious  draught, 
Round  the  low  space  of  billowy  turf 
Where  funeral  roses  flash  like  surf, 
O'er  those  who  share  the  convent  grave, 
Laid  each  beneath  her  own  green  wave. 


138  THE  BROKEN   CHAIN. 

V. 

From  stone  to  stone  she  passed,  and  spelt 
The  letters  with  her  fingers  felt ; 
The  stains  of  time  are  drooped  across 
Those  mouldering  names,  obscure  with  moss  ; 
The  hearts  where  once  they  deeply  dwelt, 
With  music's  power  to  move  and  melt, 
Are  stampless  too — the  fondest  few 
Have  scarcely  kept  a  trace  more  true. 

VI. 

She  paused  at  length  beside  a  girth 

Of  osiers  overgrown  and  old ; 
And  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  earth, 

Spoke  slowly  and  from  lips  as  cold 

As  ever  met  the  burial  mould. 

VII. 

"  I  have  not  come  to  ask  I'm-  peace 
From  thee,  thou  unforgiving  clay  ! 

The  pangs  that  pass— the  throbs  that  oease 
From  such  as  thou,  in  their  decay. 


THE   BROKEN    CHAIN.  139 

Bequeath  them  that  repose  of  wrath 

So  dark  of  heart,  so  dull  of  ear, 
That  bloodless  strength  of  sworded  sloth, 

That  shows  not  mercy,  knows  not  fear, 
And  keeps  its  death-smile  of  disdain 
Alike  for  pity,  as  for  pain. 
But,  galled  by  many  a  ghastly  link, 

That  bound  and  brought  my  soul  to  thee, 
I  come  to  bid  thy  vengeance  drink 

The  wine  of  this  my  misery. 
Look  on  me  as  perchance  the  dead 
Can  look  ;  through  soul  and  spirit  spread 
Before  thee  ;   go  thou  forth,  and  tread 
The  lone  fields  of  my  life,  and  see 

Those  dark  large  flocks  of  restless  pangs 
They  pasture,  and  the  thoughts  of  thee, 

That  shepherd  them,  and  teach  their  fangs 
To  eat  the  green,  and  guide  their  feet 
To  trample  where  the  banks  are  sweet 
And  judge  betwixt  us,  which  is  best, 
My  sleepless  torture,  or  thy  rest ; 


140  THE   BROKEN   CHAIX. 

And  which  the  worthier  to  be  wept, 
The  fate  I  caused,  or  that  I  kept. 
I  tell  thee,  that  my  steps  must  stain 
With  more  than  blood,  their  path  of  pain  ; 
And  I  would  fold  my  weary  feet 
More  gladly  in  thy  winding  sheet, 
And  wrap  my  bosom  in  thy  shroud, 
And  dash  thy  darkness  on  the  crowd 

Of  terrors  in  my  sight,  and  sheathe 
Mine  ears  from  their  confusion  loud, 

And  cool  my  brain  with  cypress  wreath 
More  gladly  from  its  pulse  of  blood, 
Than  ever  bride  with  orange  bud 
Clouded  her  moony  brow.     Alas  ! 
This  osier  fence  I  must  not  pass. 
Wilt  thou  not  thank  me — that  I  dare 

To  feel  the  beams  and  drink  the  breath 
Thai  curse  me  out  of  Heaven,  nor  share 
The  cup  that  quenches  human  care, 

The  sacrament  of  death  ; 
But  yield  thee  this,  thy  living  prey 
Of  erring  soul  and  tortured  clay, 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIK.  141 

To  feed  thee,  when  thou  convst  to  keep 
Thy  watch  of  wrath  around  my  sleep, 
Or  turn  the  shafts  of  daylight  dim, 
With  faded  breast  and  frozen  limb  ? 

VIII. 

"  Yet  come,  and  be,  as  thou  hast  been, 
Companion  ceaseless — not  unseen, 
Though  gloomed  the  veil  of  flesh  between 
Mine  eyes  and  thine,  and  fast  and  rife 
Around  me  flashed  the  forms  of  life  : 
I  knew  them  by  their  change — for  one 
I  did  not  lose,  I  could  not  shun, 
Through  laughing  crowd,  and  lighted  room, 
Through  listed  field,  and  battle's  gloom, 
Through  all  the  shapes  and  sounds  that  press 
The  Path,  or  wake  the  "Wilderness  ; 
E'en  when  He  came,  mine  eyes  to  fill, 
Whom  Love  saw  solitary  still, 
For  ever,  shadowy  by  my  side, 
I  heard  thee  murmur,  watched  thee  glide  ; 
But  what  shall  now  thy  purpose  bar  ? 
The  laughing  crowd  is  scattered  far. 


142  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

The  lighted  hall  is  left  forlorn, 
The  listed  field  is  white  with  corn, 
And  he,  beneath  whose  voice  and  brow 
I  could  forget  thee — is — as  thou." 

IX. 

She  spoke,  she  rose,  and  from  that  hour, 
The  peasant  groups  that  pause  beside 
The  chapel  walls  at  eventide, 
To  catch  the  notes  of  chord  and  song 
That  unseen  fingers  form,  and  lips  prolong, 

Have  heard  a  voice  of  deeper  power, 
Of  wilder  swell,  and  purer  fall, 
More  sad,  more  modulate,  than  all. 

It  is  not  keen,  it  is  not  loud, 
But  ever  heard  alone, 

As  winds  that  touch  on  chords  of  cloud 
Across  the  heavenly  zone, 

Then  chiefly  heard,  when  drooped  and  drowned 

In  strength  of  sorrow,  more  than  sound  ; 

That  low  articulated  rush 

Of  swift   but  secret  nassion.  breaking 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN  143 

From  sob  to  song,  from  gasp  to  gush  ; 

Then  failing  to  that  deadly  hush, 

That  only  knows  the  wilder  waking— 

That  deep,  prolonged,  and  dream-like  swell, 

So  full  that  rose— so  faint  that  fell, 

So  sad — so  tremulously  clear — 

So  checked  with  something  worse  than  fear. 

Whose  can  they  be  ? 

Go,  ask  the  midnight  stars,  that  see 

The  secrets  of  her  sleepless  cell, 

For  none  but  God  and  they  can  tell 

What  thoughts  and  deeds  of  darkened  choice 
Gave  horror  to  that  burning  voice- 
That  voice,  unheard  save  thus,  untaught 

The  words  of  penitence  or  prayer  ; 
The  grey  confessor  knows  it  not ; 
The  chapel  echoes  only  bear 
Its  burst  and  burthen  of  despair  ; 
And  pity's  voice  hath  rude  reply, 
From  darkened  brow  and  downcast  eye, 
That  quench  the  question,  kind  or  rash, 
With  rapid  shade,  and  reddening  flash  ; 


144  THE   BROKEN   CHALK. 

Or,  worse,  with  the  regardless  trance 
Of  sealed  ear,  and  sightless  glance, 
That  fearful  glance,  so  large  and  bright, 
That  dwells  so  long,  with  heed  so  light, 
When  far  within,  its  fancy  lies, 
Nor  movement  marks,  nor  ray  replies, 
Nor  kindling  dawn,  nor  holy  dew 
Reward  the  words  that  soothe  or  sue. 

x. 

Restless  she  moves  ;  beneath  her  veil 

That  writhing  brow  is  sunk  and  shaded  ; 
Its  touch  is  cold — its  veins  are  pale — 
Its  crown  is  lost — its  lustre  faded  ; 
Yet  lofty  still,  though  scarcely  bright, 
Its  glory  burns  beneath  the  blight 
Of  wasting  thought,  and  withering  crime, 
And  curse  of  torture  and  of  time  ; 
Of  pangs — of  pride,  endured — degraded — 
Of  guilt  unchecked,  and  grief  unaided  : 
Her  sable  hair  is  slightly  braided, 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  145 

Warm,  like  south  wind,  its  foldings  float 
Round  her  soft  hands  and  marble  throat ; 
How  passive  these,  how  pulseless  this, 

That  love  should  lift,  and  life  should  warm  ! 
Ah  !  where  the  kindness,  or  the  kiss, 

Can  break  their  dead  and  drooping  charm  ! 
Perchance  they  were  not  always  so  : 

That  breast  hath  sometimes  movement  deep, 
Timed  like  the  sea  that  surges  slow 
Where  storms  have  trodden  long  ago  ; 

And  sometimes,  from  their  listless  sleep, 
Those  hands  are  harshly  writhed  and  knit, 
As  grasping  what  their  frenzied  fit 
Deemed  peace  to  crush,  or  death  to  quit. 
And  then  the  sisters  shrink  aside  ; 

They  know  the  words  that  others  hear 
Of  grace,  or  gloom — to  charm  or  chide, 

Fall  on  her  inattentive  ear, 
As  falls  the  snowflake  on  the  rock, 
That  feels  no  chill,  and  knows  no  shock  ; 


146  TIIE   BROKEN   CHAIX. 

Nor  dare  they  mingle  in  her  mood, 
So  dark,  and  dimly  understood  ; 
And  better  so,  if,  as  they  say, 
'Tis  something  worse  than  solitude  : 

For  some  have  marked,  when  that  dismay 
Had  seemed  to  snatch  her  soul  away, 
That  in  her  eye's  unquietness 
There  shone  more  terror  than  distress  ; 
And  deemed  they  heard,  when  soft  and  dead, 
By  night  they  watched  her  sleepless  tread, 
Strange  words  addressed,  beneath  her  breath, 
As  if  to  one  who  heard  in  death, 
And,  in  the  night  wind's  sound  and  sigh, 
Imagined  accents  of  reply. 


XI. 

The  sun  is  on  his  western  march. 
His  rays  arc  red  on  shaft  and  arch  : 
With  hues  of  hope  their  softness  dyes 
The  image  with  the  lifted  eyes, 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

Where,  listening  still,  with  tranced  smile, 

Cecilia  lights  the  glimmering  aisle  ; 

So  calm  the  beams  that  flushed  her  rest 

Of  ardent  brow,  and  virgin  breast 

Whose  chill  they  pierced,  but  not  profaned, 

And  seemed  to  stir,  what  scarce  they  stained, 

So  warm  the  life,  so  pure  the  ray  : 

Such  she  had  stood,  ere  snatched  from  clay, 

When  sank  the  tones  of  sun  and  sphere, 

Deep  melting  on  her  mortal  ear  ; 

And  angels  stooped,  with  fond  control, 

To  write  the  rapture  on  her  soul. 

XII. 

Two  sisters,  at  the  statue's  feet, 
Paused  in  the  altar's  arched  retreat, 
As  risen  but  now  from  earnest  prayer- 
One  aged  and  grey— one  passing  fair  ; 
In  changeful  gush  of  breath  and  blood, 
Mute  for  a  time  the  younger  stood ; 
Then  raised  her  head  and  spoke  :  the  flow 
Of  sound  was  measured,  stern,  and  slow; 


147 


148  THE   BROKEN   CHAIK. 

XIII. 

"  Mother  !  thou  sajest  she  died  in  strife 
Of  heavenly  wrath,  and  human  woe  ; 

For  me,  there  is  not  that  in  life 
Whose  loss  could  ask,  or  love  could  owe 
As  much  of  pang  as  now  I  show ; 

But  that  the  book  which  angels  write 
"Within  men's  spirits  day  by  day 

That  diary  of  judgment-light 
That  cannot  pass  away, 

Which,  with  cold  ear  and  glazing  eye, 

Men  hear  and  read  before  they  die, 

Is  open  now  before  me  set ; 

Its  drifting  leaves  are  red  and  wet 

With  blood  and  fire,  and  yet,  me  thought, 

Its  words  were  music,  were  they  not 

Written  in  darkness. 

/  confess  ! 

Say'st  thou  ?     The  sea  shall  yield  its  dead, 
Perchance  my  spirit  its  distress  ; 

Yet  there  are  paths  of  human  dread 

That  none  but  God  should  trace  or  tread  ; 


THE    BROKEN    CHAIN.  149 


aw 


Men  judge  by  a  degraded  la 

With  Him  I  fear  not  :    He  who  gave 
The  sceptre  to  the  passion,  sawT 

The  sorrow  of  the  slave. 
He  made  me,  not  as  others  are, 

Who  dwell,  like  willows  by  a  brook, 
That  see  the  shadow  of  one  star 

Forever  with  serenest  look 
Lighting  their  leaves,— that  only  hear 
Their  sun-stirred  boughs  sing  soft  and  clear, 
And  only  live,  by  consciousness 
Of  waves  that  feed,  and  winds  that  bless. 
Me — rooted  on  a  lonely  rock, 

Amidst  the  rush  of  mountain  rivers, 
He,  doomed  to  bear  the  sound  and  shock 
Of  shafts  that  rend  and  storms  that  rock, 

The  frost  that  blasts,  and  flash  that  shivers  ; 
And  I  am  desolate  and  sunk. 
A  lifeless  wreck— a  leafless  trunk, 
Smitten  with  plagues,  and  seared  with  sin, 
And  black  with  rottenness  within, 


150  THE   BKOKEST   CHAIN. 

But  conscious  of  the  holier  will 

That  saved  me  long,  and  strengthens  still. 

XIV. 

Mine  e)res  are  dim,  they  scarce  can  trace 
The  rays  that  pierce  this  lonely  place  ; 
But  deep  within  their  darkness  dwell 
A  thousand  thoughts  they  knew — too  well. 
Those  orbed  towers  obscure  and  vast,* 
That  light  the  Loire  with  sunset  last  ; 
Those  fretted  groups  of  shaft  and  spire 
That  crest  Amboise's  cliff  with  fire, 
When,  far  beneath,  in  moonlight  fail 
The  winds  that  shook  the  pausing  sail  ; 
The  panes  that  tint  with  dyes  divine 
The  altar  of  St.  Hubert's  shrine  ; 
The  very  stone  on  which  I  knelt ; 

When  youth  was  pure  upon  my  brow, 
Though  word  I  prayed,  or  wish  I  felt 

I  scarce  remember  now. 

*  Note,  page  167. 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN".  151 

Methought  that  there  I  bowed  to  bless 

A  warrior's  sword — a  wanderer's  way  : 
Ah  !  nearer  now,  the  knee  would  press 

The  heart  for  which  the  lips  would  pray. 
The  thoughts  were  meek,  the  words  were  low — 

I  deemed  them  free  from  sinful  stain  ; 
It  might  be  so.     I  only  know 

These  were  unheard,  and  those  were  vain. 

xv. 
"  That  stone  is  raised  ; — where  once  it  lay 
Is  built  a  tomb  of  marble  grey  :  * 
Asleep  within  the  sculptured  veil 
Seems  laid  a  knight  in  linked  mail ; 
Obscurely  laid  in  powerless  rest, 

The  latest  of  his  line, 
Upon  his  casque  he  bears  no  crest, 

Upon  his  shield  no  sign. 
I've  seen  the  day  when  through  the  blue 
Of  broadest  heaven  his  banner  flew, 
*  Note,  page  167. 


lb'Z  THE   BROKEN   CIIAIN. 

And  armies  watched  through  farthest  fight, 
The  stainless  symbol's  stormy  light 
«  Wave  like  an  angel's  wing. 

Ah  !  now  a  scorned  and  scathed  thing, 
It's  silken  folds  the  worm  shall  fret, 
The  clay  shall  soil,  the  dew  shall  wet, 
Where  sleeps  the  sword  that  once  could  save, 

And  droops  the  arm  that  bore  ; 
Its  hues  must  gird  a  nameless  grave  ; 
Nor  wind  shall  wake,  nor  lance  shall  wave, 

Nor  glory  gild  it  more  : 
For  he  is  fallen — oh  !  ask  not  how, 
Or  ask  the  angels  that  unlock 
The  inmost  grave's  sepulchral  rock  ; 
I  could  have  told  thee  once,  but  now 
'Tis  madness  in  me  all,  and  thou 
WOiildst  deem  it  so,  if  I  should  speak. 
And  I  am  glad  my  brain  is  weak  ; — 
Ah,  this  is  yet  its  only  wrong, 
To  know  too  well — to  feel  too  long. 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  153 

XVI. 

But  I  remember  how  he  lay 
When  the  rushing  crowd  were  all  away  ; 
And  how  I  called,  with  that  low  cry 
He  never  heard  without  reply  ; 
And  how  there  came  no  sound,  nor  sign, 
And  the  feel  of  his  dead  lips  on  mine  ; 
And  when  they  came  to  comfort  me, 
I  laughed,  because  they  conld  not  see 
The  stain  of  blood,  or  print  of  lance, 
To  write  the  tomb  upon  the  trance. 
I  saw,  what  they  had  heeded  not, 
Above  his  heart  a  small  black  spot  ; 
Ah,  woe  !  I  knew  how  deep  within 
That  stamp  of  death,  that  seal  of  sin 
Had  struck  with  mortal  agony 
The  heart  so  false — to  all  but  me. 

0 

XVII. 

Mother,  methinks  my  soul  can  say 
It  loved  as  well  as  woman's  may  ; 


154  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

And  what  I  would  have  given,  to  gain 

The  answering  love,  to  count  were  vain  ; 

I  know  not — what  I  gave  I  know — 

My  hope  on  high,  my  all  below. 

But  hope  and  height  of  earth  and  heaven, 

Or  highest  sphere  to  angels  given, 

Would  I  surrender,  and  take  up 

The  horror  of  this  cross  and  cup 

I  bear  and  drink,  to  win  the  thought 

That  I  had  failed  in  what  I  sought. 

Alas  !  I  won — rejoiced  to  win 

The  love  whose  every  look  was  sin, 

Whose  every  dimly  worded  breath 

Was  but  the  distant  bell  of  death 

For  her  who  heard,  for  him  who  spoke. 

Ah  !  though  those  hours  were  swift  and  few, 
The  guilt  they  bore,  the  vow  they  broke, 

Time  cannot  punish — nor  renew. 

XVIII. 

"  They  told  me  long  ago  that  thou 

Hadst  seen,  beneath  this  very  shade 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  155 

Of  mouldering  stone  that  wraps  us  now, 

The  death  of  her  whom  he  betrayed. 
Thine  eyes  are  wet  with  memory, — 
In  truth  'tis  fearful  sight  to  see 
E'en  the  last  sands  of  sorrow  run, 
Though  the  fierce  work  of  death  be  done, 
And  the  worst  woe  that  fate  can  will 
Bids  but  its  victim  to  be  still. 
But  I  beheld  the  darker  years 

That  first  oppressed  her  beauty's  bloom  ; 
The  sickening  heart  and  silent  tears 
That  asked  and  eyed  her  early  tomb  ; 
I  watched  the  deepening  of  her  doom, 
As,  pulse  by  pulse,  and  day  by  day, 
The  crimson  life-tint  waned  away 
And  timed  her  bosom's  quickening  beat, 

That  hastened  only  to  be  mute, 
And  the  short  tones,  each  day  more  sweet, 
That  made  her  lips  like  an  Eolian  lute, 
When  winds  are  saddest ;  and  I  saw 
The  kindling  of  the  unearthly  awe 


15G  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN". 

That  touched  those  lips  with  frozen  light, 
The  smile,  so  bitter,  yet  so  bright, 
Which  grief,  that  sculptured,  seals  its  own. 
Which  looks  like  life,  but  stays  like  stone  ; 
Which  checks  with  fear  the  charm  it  gives, 
And  loveliest  burns,  when  least  it  lives, — 
All  this  I  saw.     Thou  canst  not  guess 
How  woman  may  be  merciless. 
One  word  from  me  had  rent  apart 
The  chains  that  chafed  her  dying  heart  : 
Closer  I  clasped  the  links  of  care, 
And  learned  to  pity — not  to  spare. 

XIX. 

She  might  have  been  avenged  ;  for,  .when 
Her  woe  was  aidless  among  men, 
And  tooth  of  scorn  and  brand  of  shame 
Had  scared  her  spirit,  soiled  her  name, 
There  came  a  stranger  to  her  side, 
Or — if  a  friend,  forgotten  long, 
For  hearts  are  frail,  when  hands  divide. 
There  were  who  said  her  early  pride 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN".  157 

Had  cast  his  love  away  with  wrong  ; 

But  that  might  be  a  dreamer's  song. 
He  looked  like  one  whom  power  or  pain 

Had  hardened,  or  had  hewn,  to  rock 
That  could  not  melt  nor  rend  again, 

Unless  the  staff  of  God  might  shock, 
And  burst  the  sacred  waves  to  birth 
That  deck  with  bloom  the  Desert's  dearth — 
Tli at  dearth,  that  knows  nor  breeze,  nor  balm, 

lS~or  feet  that  print,  nor  sounds  that  thrill, 
Though  cloudless  was  his  soul,  and  calm, 

It  was  the  Desert  still ; 
And  blest  the  wildest  cloud  had  been 
That  broke  the  desolate  serene, 
And  kind  the  storm,  that  farthest  strewed 
Those  burning  sands  of  solitude. 

xx. 
"  Darkly  he  came,  and  in  the  dust 

Had  writ,  perchance,  Amboise's  shame  : 

I  knew  the  sword  he  drew  was  just, 

And  in  my  fear  a  fiend  there  came  ; 


158  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

It  deepened  first,  and  then  derided 

The  madness  of  my  youth  ; 
I  deemed  not  that  the  God,  who  guided 

The  battle  blades  in  truth, 
Could  gather  from  the  earth  the  guilt 
Of  holy  blood  in  secret  spilt. 

XXI. 

"I  watched  at  night  the  feast  flow  high  ; 
I  kissed  the  cup  he  drank  to  die  ; 
I  heard  at  morn  the  trumpet  call 
Leap  cheerily  round  the  guarded  wall  ; 
And  laughed  to  think  how  long  and  cleai 
The  blast  must  be,  for  him  to  hear. 
He  lies  within  the  chambers  deep, 

Beneath  Amboise's  chapel  floor, 
Where  slope  the  rocks  in  ridges  steep, 

Far  to  the  river  shore  ; 
"Where  thick  the  summer  flowers  are  sown, 
And,  even  within  the  deadening  stone, 

A  living  car  can  catch  the  close 
Of  gentle  waves  forever  sent, 


THE    BROKEN   CHAIN.  159 

To  soothe,  with  lull  and  long  lament, 

That  murdered  knight's  repose  : 
And  yet  he  sleeps  not  well  ;— but  I 

Am  wild,  and  know  not  what  I  say  ; — 
My  guilt  thou  knowest — the  penalty 

Which  I  have  paid,  and  yet  must  pay, 

Thou  canst  not  measure.     O'er  the  day 
I  see  the  shades  of  twilight  float — 
My  time  is  short.     Belieyest  thou  not  ? 
I  know  my  pulse  is  true  and  light, 
My  step  is  firm,  mine  eyes  are  bright  ; 
Yet  see  they — what  thou  canst  not  see, 
The  open  grave,  deep  dug  for  me  ; 
The  vespers  we  shall  sing  to-night 

My  burial  hymn  shall  be  : 
But  what  the  path  by  which  I  go, 
My  heart  desires  yet  dreads  to  know. 
But  this  remember,  (these  the  last 

Of  words  I  speak  for  earthly  ear  ; 
Nor  sign  nor  sound  my  soul  shall  cast, 

Wrapt  in  its  final  fear) : 


1G0  THE   BROKEN    CHAIX. 

For  him,  forgiving,  brave  and  true, 
Whom  timeless  and  unshrived  I  slew, 
For  him  be  holiest  masses  said, 
And  rites  that  sanctify  the  dead, 
"With  yearly  honor  paid. 
For  her,  by  whom  he  was  betrayed, 
Nor  blood  be  shed,  nor  prayer  be  made, — 
The  cup  were  death— the  words  were  sin- 
To  judge  the  soul  they  could  not  win, 
And  fall  in  torture  o'er  the  grave 

Of  one  they  could  not  wash,  nor  save.'' 
***** 

XXII. 

The  vesper  beads  are  told  and  slipped. 
The  chant  has  sunk  by  choir  and  crypt, 
That  circle  dark — they  rise  not  yet  ; 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  lashes  wet, 

They  linger,  bowed  and  low  ; 
They  must  not  part  before  they  pray 
For  her  who  left  them  on  this  day 

How  many  years  ago  ! 


THE   BROKEN    CHAIN.  161 


XXIII. 


They  knelt  within  the  marble  screen, 
Black-robed  and  moveless,  hardly  seen, 
Save  by  their  shades  that  sometimes  shook 

Along  the  quiet  floor, 
Like  leaf-shades  on  a  waveless  brook 

When  the  wind  walks  by  the  shore. 
The  altar  lights  that  burned  between, 
Were  seven  small  fire-shafts,  white  and  keen, 

Intense  and  motionless. 
They  did  not  shake  for  breeze  nor  breath. 

They  did  not  change,  nor  sink,  nor  shiver ; 
They  burned  as  burn  the  barbs  of  death 

At  rest  within  their  angel's  quiver. 
From  lip  to  lip,  in  chorus  kept, 
The  sad  sepulchral  music  swept, 
While  one  sweet  voice  unceasing  led  : 
Were  there  but  mercy  for  the  dead, 
Such  prayer  had  power  to  soothe — to  save — 
Ay,  even  beneath  the  binding  grave  ; 


162  THE    BROKEN    CHAIN. 

So  pure  the  springs  of  faith  that  fill 

The  spirit's  fount,  at  last  unsealed. 
A  corpse's  ear,  an  angel's  will, 

That  voice  might  wake,  or  wield. 
Keener  it  rose,  and  wilder  yet, 
The  lifeless  flowers  that  wreathe  and  fret 
Column  and  arch  with  garlands  white, 
Drank  the  deep  fall  of  its  delight, 
Like  purple  rain  at  evening  shed 

On  Sestri's  cedar-darkened  shore, 
When  all  her  sunlit  waves  lie  dead, 
And  far  along  the  mountains  fled, 

Her  clouds  forget  the  gloom  they  wore. 
Till  winding  vale  and  pasture  low 
Pant  underneath  their  gusli  and  glow  ; 
So  sank,  so  swept,  on  earth  and  air, 
That  single  voice  of  passioned  prayer. 
The  hollow  tombs  gave  back  the  tone, 
The  roof's  grey  shafts  of  stalwart  stone 
Quivered  like  chords,  the  keen  night  blast 
Grew  tame  beneath  the  sound.     Tis  past  : 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  163 

That  failing  cry — how  feebly  flung  ! 
What  charm  is  laid  on  her  who  sung  ? 

Slowly  she  rose — her  eyes  were  fixed 
On  the  void,  penetrable  air  ; 

And  in  their  glance  was  gladness  mixed 
With  terror,  and  an  under  glare  : 
What  human  soul  shall  seize  or  share 

The  thoughts  it  might  avow  ? 
It  might  have  been — ah  !  is  it  now — 

Devotion  ? — or  despair  ? 

XXIY. 

With  steps  whose  short  white  flashes  keep 

Beneath  the  shade  of  her  loose  hair, 
With  measured  pace,  as  one  in  sleep 

Who  heareth  music  in  the  air, 
She  left  the  sister's  circle  deep 
Their  anxious  eyes  of  troubled  thought 
Dwelt  on  her  but  she  heeded  not  ; 
Fear  struck  and  breathless  as  they  gazed, 

Before  her  steps  their  ranks  divided  ; 
Her  hand  was  given — her  face  was  raised 


104  THE   BROKEN   CHAIN. 

As  if  to  one  who  watched  and  guided — 
Her  form  emerges  from  the  shade  ; 
Lo  !  she  will  cross,  where  full  displayed 
Against  the  altar  light  'tis  thrown  ; 
She  crosses  now — but  not  alone. 
Who  leads  her  ?     Lq  !  the  sisters  shrink 
Back  from  that  guide  with  limbs  that  sink, 
And  eyes  that  glaze,  and  lips  that  blench  ; 

For,  seen  where  broad  the  beams  were  cast 
By  what  it  dimmed,  but  did  not  quench, 

A  dark,  veiled  form  there  passed — 
Veiled  with  the  nun's  black  robe,  that  shed 
Faint  shade  around  its  soundless  tread  ; 
Moveless  and  mute  the  folds  that  fell, 
Nor  touch  can  change,  nor  breeze  repel. 
Deep  to  the  earth  its  head  was  bowed, 
Its  face  was  bound  with  the  white  shroud ; 
One  hand  upon  its  bosom  pressed — 
One  seemed  to  lend  its  mortal  gnesi  ; 
The  hand  it  held  lay  bright  and  bare, 
Cold  as  itself,  and  deadly  fair. 


THE   BROKEN   CHAIN.  165 

What  oath  had  bound  the  fatal  troth 
Whose  horror  seems  to  seal  them  both  ? 
Each  powerless  in  the  grasp  they  give, 
This  to  release,  and  that  to  live. 

xxv. 

Like  sister  sails,  that  drift  by  night 
Together  on  the  deep, 

Seen  only  where  they  cross  the  light 
That  pathless  waves  must  pathlike  keep 
From  fisher's  signal  fire,  or  pharos  steep. 

XXVI. 

Like  two  thin  wreaths  that  autumn  dew 
Hath  framed  of  equal  paced  cloud, 
Whose  shapes  the  hollow  night  can  shroud, 

Until  they  cross  some  caverned  place 
Of  moon  illumined  blue, 

That  live  an  instant,  but  must  trace 

Their  onward  way,  to  waste  and  wane 

Within  the  sightless  gloom  again, 


166  TIIE    BROKEN   CHAIN. 

Where,  scattered  from  their  heavenly  pride 
Nor  star  nor  storm  shall  gild  or  guide, — 
So  shape  and  shadow,  side  by  side 
The  consecrated  light  had  crossed. 
Beneath  the  aisle  an  instant  lost, 

Behold  !  again  they  glide 
Where  yonder  moonlit  arch  is  bent 
Above  the  marble  steps'  descent, — 
Those  ancient  steps,  so  steep  and  worn, 

Though  none  descend,  unless  it  be 
Bearing,  or  borne,  to  sleep,  or  mourn, 

The  faithful  or  the  free. 
The  shade  yon  bending  cypress  cast, 

Stirred  by  the  weak  and  tremulous  air, 
Kept  back  the  moonlight  as  they  passed. 

The  rays  returned  :  they  were  not  there0 
Who  follows  ?     Watching  still,  to  mark 
If  ought  returned --(but  all  was  dark) 
Down  to  the  gate,  by  two  and  three, 
The  sisters  crept,  how  fearfully  ! 


THE   BROKEN    CHAIN".  167 

They  only  saw,  when  there  they  came, 
Two  wandering  tongues  of  waving  flame, 
O'er  the  white  stones,  confusedly  strewed 
Across  the  field  of  solitude.     . 


NOTES. 

Stanza  II.  Line  4. 
"  The  image  with  the  lifted  eyes." — I  was  thinking  of  the  St.  Cecilia 
of  Raphael  at  Bologna,  turned  into  marble — were  it  possible — where  so 
much  depends  on  the  entranced  darkness  of  the  eyes.  The  shrine  of  St. 
Cecilia  is  altogether  imaginary  ;  she  is  not  a  favorite  saint  in  matters 
of  dedication.     I  don't  know  why. 

Stanza  XIV.  Line  5. 
"Those  orbed  towers,  obscure  and  vast." — The  circular  tower,  in 
Amboise,  is  so  large  as  to  admit  of  a  spiral  ascent  in  its  interior,  which 
two  horsemen  may  ride  up  abreast.  The  chapel,  which  crowns  the 
precipice,  though  small,  is  one  of  the  loveliest  bits  of  rich  detail  in 
France .  It  is  terminated  by  a  wooden  spire.  It  is  dedicated  to  St. 
Hubert,  a  grotesque  piece  of  carving  above  the  entrance  representing 
his  rencontre  with  the  sacred  stag. 

Stanza  XV.     Line  2. 
'  'Is  built  a  tomb  of  marble  grey. " — There  is  no  such  tomb  now  in  exist- 
ence, the  chapel  being  circular,  and  unbroken  in  design  ;  in  fact,    I 


168  THE   BROKEN    CHAIN. 

have  my  doubts  whether  there  ever  was  anything  of  the  kind,  the  lady 
being  slightly  too  vague  in  her  assertions  to  deserve  unqualified  credit. 

Stanza  XXI.     Line  42. 

"  Nor  blood  be  shed." — In  the  sacrifices  of  masses  the  priest  is  said  to 
offer  Christ  for  the  quick  and  dead. 

Stanza  XXIII.     Line  26. 

"  Like  purple  rain . " — I  never  saw  such  a  thing  but  once,  on  the  moun- 
tains of  Sestri,  in  the  gulf  of  Genoa.  The  whole  western  half  of  the 
sky  was  one  intense  amber  color,  the  air  crystalline  and  cloudless,  the 
other  half,  grey  with  drifting  showers.  At  the  instant  of  sunset,  the 
whole  mass  of  rain  turned  of  a  deep  rose-color,  the  consequent  rainbow 
being  not  varied  with  the  seven  colors,  but  one  broad  belt  of  paler  rose ; 
the  other  tints  being  so  delicate  as  to  be  overwhelmed  by  the  crimson 
of  the  rain. 


THE   TEARS   OF   PSAMMEXITUS. 

[Cambyses,  the  son  of  Cyrus,  made  war  on  Psammenitus  of  Egypt, 
and  deposed  him.  His  sons  were  sentenced  to  death,  his  daughters  to 
slavery.  He  saw  his  children  pass  to  death  and  to  dishonor  without 
apparent  emotion,  but  wept  on  observing  a  noble,  who  had  been  his 
companion,  ask  alms  of  the  Persians.  Cambyses  sent  to  inquire  the 
reason  of  his  conduct.     The  substance  of  his  reply  was  as  follows  ; — J 

Say  ye  I  wept  ?   I  do  not  know  : — 

There  came  a  sound  across  my  brain, 
"Which  was  familiar  long  ago  ; 

And  through  the  hot  and  crimson  stain 
That  floods  the  earth  and  chores  the  air, 
I  saw  the  waving  of  white  hair — 

The  palsy  of  an  aged  brow  ; 

I  should  have  known  it  once,  but  now 

One  desperate  hour  hath  dashed  away 

The  memory  of  my  kingly  day. 

169 


j;    I  THE    TEAKS    OP    PSAMMEXITIS. 

Mute,  weak,  unable  to  deliver 

That  bowed  distress  of  passion  pale, 
I  saw  that  forehead's  tortured  quiver. 

And  watched  the  weary  footstep  fail, 
With  just  as  much  of  sickening  thrill 
As  marked  my  heart  was  human  still ; 
Yes,  though  my  breast  is  bound  and  barred 
With  pain,  and  though  that  heart  is  hard, 
And  though  the  grief  that  should  have  bent 

Hath  made  me,  what  ye  dare  not  mock, 
The  being  of  untamed  intent, 

Between  the  tiger  and  the  rock, 
There's  that  of  pity's  outward  glow- 
May  bid  the  tear  atone, 
In  mercy  to  another's  woe 
For  mockery  of  its  own  ; 
It  is  not  cold, — it  is  not  less, 
Though  yielded  in  unconsciousness. 
And  it  is  well  that  I  can  weep, 
For  in  the  shadow,  not  of  sleep, 
Through  which,  as  wifh  a  vain  endeavor, 
These  aged  eyes  must  gaze  forever, 


THE   TEAKS   OF   FSAMMENITUS.  171 

Their  tears  can  east  the  only  light 

That  mellows  down  the  mass  of  night  ; 

For  they  have  seen  the  curse  of  sight 

My  spirit  guards  the  dread  detail 

And  wears  their  vision  like  a  veil. 

They  saw  the  low  Pelusian  shore 

Grow  warm  with  death  and  dark  with  gore, 
When  on  those  widely  watered  fields, 

Shivered  and  sunk,  betrayed,  oppressed, 
Ionian  sword  and  Carian  crest,* 
And  Egypt's  shade  of  shields  : 
They  saw,  oh  God  !  they  still  must  see 
That  dream  of  long  dark  agony, 
A  vision  passing,  never  past, 
A  troop  of  kingly  forms,  that  cast 
Cold  quivering  shadows  of  keen  pain 
In  bars  of  darkness  o'er  my  brain  : 
I  see  them  move, — I  hear  them  tread, 
Each  his  untroubled  eyes  declining, 

*  The  Ionians  and  Carians  were  faithful  auxiliaries  of  the  Egyptian 
kings,  from  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of  Psammenitus.  The  helmet 
crest  was  invented  bv  the  Carians. 


172  THE   TEAKS    OF    PSAMMEXITUS. 

Though  fierce  in  front,  and  swift  and  red 
The  Eastern  sword  is  sheathless  shining. 
I  hear  them  tread, — the  earth  doth  not ! 
Alas  !  its  echoes  have  forgot 
The  fiery  steps  that  shook  the  shore 
With  their  swift  pride  in  days  of  yore. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  in  wrath  arrayed, 
Shall  Egypt  wave  her  battle  blaTle  ; 
It  cannot  cleave  the  dull  death  shade, 
Where,  sternly  checked  and  lowly  laid, 
Despised,  dishonored,  and  betrayed, 
That  pride  is  past,  those  steps  are  stayed. 
Oh  !  would  I  were  as  those  who  sleep 

In  yonder  island  lone  and  low.* 
Beside  whose  shore,  obscure  and  deep, 

Sepulchral  waters  flow, 
And  wake,  with  beating  pause,  like  breath, 
Their  pyramidal  place  of  death  ; 

*  Under  the  hill,  on  which  the  pyramids  of  Cheops  were  erected,  were 
excavated  vaults,  around  which  a  stream  from  the  Nile  was  carried  by 
a  subterraneous  passage.  These  were  sepulchres  for  the  kings,  and 
Cheops  was  buried  there  himself.— Herod.,  II.,  187. 


THE   TEARS    OF    PSAMMKXITUS.  173 

For  it  is  cool  and  quiet  there, 

And  on  the  calm  frankincensed  clay 
Passes  no  change,  and  this  despair 

Shrinks  like  the  baffled  worm,  their  prey 
Alike  impassive.     I  forget   • 

The  thoughts  of  him  who  sent  ye  here  : 
Bear  back  these  words,  and  say,  though  yet 

The  shade  of  this  unkingly  feai- 
Hath  power  upon  my  brow,  no  tear 
Hath  quenched  the  curse  within  mine  eyes, 
And  by  that  curse's  fire, 

I  see  the  doom  that  shall  possess 
His  hope,  his  passion,  his  desire, 

His  life,  his  strength,  his  nothingness. 
I  see  across  the  desert  led,* 

A  plumed  host,  on  whom  distress 
Of  fear  and  famine  hath  been  shed  ; 


*  Cambyses,  after  subduing  Egypt,  led  an  army  against  the  Ethi- 
opians. He  was  checked  by  famine.  Persisting  in  his  intention,  un- 
til the  troops  were  obliged  to  kill  every  tenth  man  for  food,  he  lost  the 
greater  part  of  his  army. 


174  THE   TEAES   OF   PSA.MMEXITUS. 

Before  them  lies  the  wilderness, 
Behind,  along  the  path  the}'  tread, 

If  death  make  desolation  less, 
There  lie  a  company  of  dead 

Who  coyer  the'sand's  hot  nakedness 
With  a  cool  moist  bed  of  human  clay, 
A  soil  and  a  surface  of  slow  decay  : 
Through  the  dense  and  lifeless  heap 

Irregularly  rise 
Short  shuddering  waves  that  heave  and  creep, 
Like  spasms  that  league  the  guilty  sleep, 

And  where  the  motion  dies, 
A  moaning  mixes  with  the  purple  air. 
They  have  not  fallen  in  fight  ;  the  trace 

Of  war  hath  not  passed  by ; 
There  is  no  fear  on  any  face, 

No  wrath  in  any  eye. 
They  have  laid  them  down  with  bows  unbent, 
With  swords  unfleshed  and  innocent, 
In  the  grasp  of  that  famine  whose  gradual  thrill 
Is  fiercest  to  torture  and  longest  to  kill  : 


THE   TEARS   OF   PSAMMENITUS.  175 

Stretched  in  one  grave  on  the  burning  plain 

Coiled  together  in  knots  of  pain, 

"Where  the  dead  are  twisted  in  skeleton  writhe, 

With  the  mortal  pangs  of  the  living  and  lithe  ; 

Soaking  into  the  sand  below, 

With  the  drip  of  the  death-dew,  heavy  and  slow, 

blocking  the  heaven  that  heard  no  prayer, 

TTith  the  lifted  hand  and  the  lifeless  stare — 

With  the  lifted  hand,  whose  tremorless  clay, 

Though  powerless  to  combat,  is  patient  to  pray. 

And  the  glance  that  reflects,  in  its  vain  address. 

Heaven's  blue  from  its  own  white  lifelessness  ; 

Heaped  for  a  feast  on  the  venomous  ground, 

For  the  howling  jackal  and  herded  hound  ; 

With  none  that  can  watch  and  with  few  that  will  weep 

By  the  home  they  have  left,  or  the  home  they  must 

keep, 
The  strength  hath  been  lost  from  the  desolate  land, 
Once  fierce  as  the  simoon,  now  frail  as  the  sand. 
Not  unavenged  :  their  gathered  wrath 
Is  dark  along  its  desert  path, 


17G  THE   TEARS   OF   PSAMMEXITUS. 

Nor  strength  shall  bide,  nor  madness  fly 
The  anger  of  their  agony, 

For  every  eye,  though  sunk  and  dim, 
And  every  lip,  in  its  last  need, 

Hath  looked  and  breathed  a  plague  on  him 
Whose  pride  they  fell  to  feed. 
The  dead  remember  well  and  long, 
And  they  are  cold  of  heart  and  strong, 
They  died,  they  cursed  thee  ;  not  in  vain  ! 
Along  the  river's  reedy  plain 
Behold  a  troop, — a  shadowy  crowd — 
Of  godlike  spectres,  pale  and  proud  ; 
In  concourse  calm  they  move  and  meet, 
The  desert  billows  at  their  feet, 
Heave  like  the  sea  when,  deep  distressed, 
The  waters  pant  in  their  unrest. 
Robed  in  a  whirl  of  pillared  sand 

Avenging  Amnion  glides  supreme  ;  * 


*  Cambyses  sent  50,000  men  to  burn  the  temple  of  the  Egyptian  Jove 
or  Amnion.  They  plunged  into  the  desert  and  were  never  heard  of 
more.     It  was  reported  they  were  overwhelmed  with  sand. 


THE   TEARS   OF   PSAMMEXITUS.  177 

The  red  sun  smoulders  in  his  hand 

And  round  about  his  brows,  the  gleam, 
As  of  a  broad  and  burning  fold 

Of  purple  wind,  is  wrapt  and  rolled.* 
"With  failing  frame  and  lingering  tread, 

Stern  Apis  follows,  wild  and  worn  ;  f 
The  blood  by  mortal  madness  shed, 

Frozen  on  his  white  limbs  anguish -torn. 
What  soul  can  bear,  what  strength  can  brook 
The  God-distress  that  fills  his  look  ? 
The  dreadful  light  of  fixed  disdain, 
The  fainting  wrath,  the  flashing  pain 
Bright  to  decree  or  to  confess 
Another's  fate — its  own  distress — 

*  The  simoon  is  rendered  visible  by  its  purple  tone  of  color. 

f  The  god  Apis  occasionally  appeared  in  Egypt  under  the  form  of  a 
handsome  bull.  lie  imprudently  visited  his  worshippers  immediately 
after  Cambyses  had  returned  from  Ethiopia  with  the  loss  of  his  army 
and  reason.  Cambyses  heard  of  his  appearance,  and  insisted  on  seeing 
him.  The  officiating  priests  introduced  Cambyses  to  the  bull.  The 
king  looked  with  little  respect  on  a  deity  whose  divinity  depended  on 
the  number  of  hairs  in  his  tail,  drew  his  dagger,  wounded  Apis  in 
the  thigh,  and  scourged  all  the  priests.  Apis  died.  From  that  time 
the  insanity  of  Cambyses  became  evident,  and  he  was  subject  to  the 
violent  and  torturing  passions  described  in  the  succeeding  lines. 


178  THE   TEARS   OF   PSAMMENITUS. 

A  mingled  passion  and  appeal, 
Dark  to  inflict  and  deep  to  feel. 

"Who  are  these  that  flitting  follow 
Indistinct  and  numberless  ? 

As  through  the  darkness,  cold  and  hollow, 
Of  some  hopeless  dream,  there  press 
Dim,  delirious  shapes  that  dress 
Their  white  limbs  with  folds  of  pain  ; 
See  the  swift  mysterious  train — 

Forms  of  fixed,  embodied  feeling, 
Fixed,  but  in  a  fiery  trance, 
Of  wildering  mien  and  lightning  glance, 

Each  its  inward  power  revealing 
Through  its  quivering  countenance  ; 
Visible  living  agonies, 

Wild  with  everlasting  motion, 
Memory  with  her  dark  dead  eyes, 
Tortured  thoughts  that  useless  rise, 

Late  remorse  and  vain  devotion, 
Dreams  of  cruelty  and  crime, 
Unmoved  by  rage,  untamed  by  time, 


THE   TEARS   OE    PSAMMENITUS.  179 

Of  fierce  design,  and  fell  delaying, 

Quenched  affection,  strong  despair 
Wan  disease,  and  madness  playing 

With  her  own  pale  hair. 
The  last,  how  woeful  and  how  wild  ! 

Enrobed  with  no  diyiner  dread 
Than  that  one  smile,  so  sad,  so  mild, 

Worn  by  the  human  dead  ; 
A  spectre  thing,  whose  pride  of  power 

Is  vested  in  its  pain 
Becoming  dreadful  in  the  hour 

When  what  it  seems  was  slain. 
Bound  with  the  chill  that  checks  the  sense, 

It  moves  in  spasm-like  spell  : 
It  walks  in  that  dead  impotence, 

How  weak,  how  terrible  ! 
Cambyses,  when  thy  summoned  hour 
Shall  pause  on  Ecbatana's  Tower, 
Though  barbed  with  guilt,  and  swift,  and  fierce, 
Unnumbered  pangs  thy  soul  shall  pierce 


180  THE   TEARS    OF    PSAMMEXITUS. 

The  last,  the  worst  thy  heart  can  prove, 
Must  be  that  brothers  look  of  love  ;  * 
Thai  look  that  once  shone  but  to  bless, 
Then  changed,  how  mute,  how  merciless  ! 
His  blood  shall  bathe  thy  brow,  his  pain 
Shall  bind  thee  with  a  burning  chain, 
His  arms  shall  drag,  his  wrath  shall  thrust 
Thy  soul  to  death,  thy  throne  to  dust ; 
Thy  memory  darkened  with  disgrace, 
Thy  kingdom  wrested  from  thy  race,f 
Condemned  of  God,  accursed  of  men, 
Lord  of  my  grief,  remember  then, 
The  tears  of  him — who  will  not  weep  again. 

*Cambyses  caused  his  brother  Smerdis  to  be  slain  ;  suspecting  him  of 
designs  on  the  throne.  This  deed  he  bitterly  repented  of  on  his  death- 
bed, being  convinced  of  the  innocence  of  his  brother. 

f  Treacherously  seized  by  Smerdis  the  Magus,  afterwards  attained 
by  Darius  Ilystaspes,  through  the  instrumentality  of  his  groom. 
Cambyses  died  in  the  Syrian  Eebatana,  of  a  wound  accidentally 
received  in  the  part  of  the  thigh  where  he  had  wounded  Apis. 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 

T. 

The  paths  of  life  are  rudely  laid 

Beneath  the  blaze  of  burning  skies  ; 
Level  and  cool,  in  cloistered  shade, 

The  church's  pavement  lies. 
Along  the  sunless  forest  glade 

Its  gnarled  roots  are  coiled  like  crime, 
Where  glows  the  grass  with  freshening  blade, 

Thine  eyes  may  track  the  serpent  slime  ; 
But  there  thy  steps  are  unbet rayed, 

The  serpent  waits  a  surer  time. 

ii. 

The  fires  of  earth  are  fiercely  blent, 

Its  suns  arise  with  scorching  glow  ; 

The  church's  light  hath  soft  descent, 

And  hues  like  God's  own  bow. 

181 


182  THE    TWO    PATHS. 

Tho  brows  of  men  are  darkly  bent, 

Their  lips  arc  wreathed  "with  scorn  and  guile  ; 

But  pure,  and  pale,  and  innocent 

The  looks  that  light  the  marble  aisle — 

From  angel  eyes,  in  love  intent, 
And  lips  of  everlasting  smile. 

in. 
Lady,  the  fields  of  earth  are  wide, 

And  tempt  an  infant's  foot  to  stray  : 
Oh  !  lead  thy  loved  one's  steps  aside, 

Where  the  white  altar  lights  his  way. 
Around  his  path  shall  glance  and  glide, 

A  thousand  shadows  false  and  wild  ; 
Oh  !  lead  him  to  that  surer  Guide, 

Than  sire,  serene,  or  mother  mild, 
Whose  childhood  quelled  the  age  of  pride, 

Whose  Godhead  called  the  little  child. 

IV. 

So  when  thy  breast  of  love  untold, 
That  warmed  his  sleep  of  infancy, 


THE   TWO    PATHS.  183 


Shall  only  make  the  marble  cold, 

Beneath  his  aged  knee  ; 
From  its  steep  "throne  of  heavenly  gold 

Thy  soul  shall  stoop  to  see 
His  grief,  that  cannot  be  controlled, 

Turning  to  God  from  thee — 
Cleaving  with  prayer  the  cloudy  fold5 

That  veils  the  sanctuary. 


THE  OLD  WATER-WHEEL. 

It  lies  beside  the  river  ;  where  its  marge 
Is  black  with  many  an  old  and  oarless  barge, 
And  yeasty  filth,  and  leafage  wild  and  rank 
Stagnate  and  batten  by  the  crumbling  bank. 

Once,  slow  revolving  by  the  industrious  mill, 
It  murmured,  only  on  the  Sabbath  still  ; 
And  evening  winds  its  pulse-like  beating  bore 
Down  the  soft  vale,  and  by  the  winding  shore. 

Sparkling  around  its  orbed  motion  flew, 
With  quick,  fresh  fall,  the  drops  of  dashing  dew, 
Through  noon-tide  heat  that  gentle  rain  was  Hung, 
And  verdant  round  the  summer  herbage  sprung, 

Now  dancing  light  and  sounding  motion  cease, 

In  these  dark  hours  of  cold  continual  peace  ; 

184 


THE    OLD    WATER-WHEEL.  185 

Through  its  black  bars  the  unbroken  moonlight  flows, 
And  dry  winds  howl  about  its  long  repose  ; 

And  mouldering  lichens  creep,  and  mosses  grey 
Cling  round  its  arms,  in  gradual  decay, 
Amidst  the  hum  of  men — which  doth  not  suit 
That  shadowy  circle,  motionless  aud  mute. 

So,  by  the  sleep  of  many  a  human  heart, 
The  crowd  of  men  may  bear  their  busy  part, 
Where  withered,  or  forgotten,  or  subdued, 
Its  noisy  passions  haye  left  solitude. 

Ah,  little  can  they  trace  the  hidden  truth  ! 
What  wayes  haye  moyed  it  in  the  vale  of  youth  ! 
And  little  can  its  broken  chords  ayow 
How  they  once  sounded.     All  is  silent  now. 


THE  DEPARTED  LIGHT. 

Thou  know'st  the  place  where  purple  rocks  receive 

The  deepened  silence  of  the  pausing  stream  ; 
And  myrtles  and  white  olives  interweave 

Their  cool  grey  shadows  with  the  azure  gleam 
Of  noontide  ;  and  pale  temple  columns  cleave 

Those  waves  with  shafts  of  light  (as  through  a  dream 
Of  sorrow,  pierced  the  memories  of  loved  hours — 

Cold  and  fixed  thoughts  that  will  not  pass  away) 
All  chapleted  with  wreaths  of  marble  flowers, 

Too  calm  to  live, — too  lovely  to  decay. 
And  hills  rise  round,  pyramidal  and  vast, 

Like  tombs  built  of  blue  heaven,  above  the  clay 
Of  those  who  worshipped  here,  whose  steps  liave  past 

To  silence — leaving  o'er  the  waters  cast 

The  light  of  their  religion.     There,  at  eve. 

That  gentle  dame  would  walk,  when  night-birds  make 

186 


THE    DEPARTED    LIGHT.  187 

The  starry  myrtle  blossoms  pant  and  heave 

With  waves  of  ceaseless  song ;  she  would  awake 
The  lulled  air  with  her  kindling  thoughts,  and  leave 

Her  voice's  echo  on  the  listening  lake  ; 
The  quenched  rays  of  her  beauty  would  deceive 

Its  depths  into  quick  joy.     Hill,  wave,  and  brake 
Grew  living  as  she  moved  :  I  did  believe 

That  they  were  lovely,  only  for  her  sake ; 
But  now — she  is  not  there — at  least,  the  chill 

Hath  passed  upon  her  which  no  sun  shall  break. 
Stranger,  my  feet  must  shun  the  lake  and  hill  : — 
Seek  them, — but  dream  not  they  are  lovely  still. 


AGONIA. 

Whe^  our  delight  is  desolate, 

And  hope  is  overthrown  ; 
And  when  the  heart  must  bear  the  weight 

Of  its  own  love  alone  ; 

And  when  the  soul,  whose  thoughts  are  deep, 

Must  guard  them  unrevealed, 
And  feel  that  it  is  full,  hut  keep 

That  fullness  calm  and  sealed  ; 

WTien  love's  long  glance  is  dark  with  pain — 

With  none  to  inert,  or  cheer  ; 
Ami  words  of  woe  are  wild  in  vain 

For  those  who  cannot  hear  ; 

188 


AGONIA.  189 

AY  hen  earth  is  dark  and  memory 

Pale  in  the  heaven  above, — 
The  heart  can  bear  to  lose  its  j oy, 

But  not  to  cease  to  love. 

But  what  shall  guide  the  choice  within, 

Of  guilt  or  agony, — 
When  to  remember  is  to  sin, 

And  to  forget — to  die  t 


TIIE   LAST   SONG   OF   ARION. 

70,9  XiyeiocS  jiiopov  drfdovoS 

*      *      »       HVHVOV  d'lHTJV 

tov  v6rcxror  us\ip(x6a  Oavadmov  yuor. 

The  circumstances  which  led  to  the  introduction  of  Arion  to  his 
Dolphin  are  differently  related  by  Ilerodotus  and  Lucian.  Both  agree 
that  he  was  a  musician  of  the  highest  order,  born  at  Methymna,  in  the 
island  of  Lesbos,  and  that  he  acquired  fame  and  fortune  at  the  court  of 
Periander  of  Corinth.  Ilerodotus  affirms  that  he  became  desirous  of 
seeing  Italy  and  Sicily,  and  having  made  a  considerable  fortune  in 
those  countries,  hired  a  Corinthian  vessel  to  take  him  back  to  Corinth. 
When  halfway  over  the  gulf  the  mariners  conceived  the  idea  of  seizing 
the  money  and  throwing  the  musician  into  the  sea. 

Arion  started  several  objections,  but  finding  that  they  were  over- 
ruled, requested  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  sing  them  a  song. 

Permission  being  granted  he  wreathed  himself  and  his  harp  with 
flowers,  sang,  says  Lucian,  in  the  sweetest  way  in  the  world,  and  leaped 
into  the  sea. 

The  historian  proceeds  with  less  confidence  to  state  that  a  dolphin 
carried  him  safe  ashore.  Lucian  agrees  with  this  account  except  in 
one  particular  :  he  makes  no  mention  of  the  journey  to  Sicily,  and  sup- 
poses Arion  to  have  been  returning  from  Corinth  to  his  native  Lesbos 
when  the  attack   \,as  made  on  him.     I  have  taken  him  to  Sicily  with 

190 


THE   LAST   SONG    OF   ARIOX.  191 

Herodotus,  but  prefer  sending  him  straight  home.  He  is  more  inter- 
esting returning  to  his  country  than  paying  his  respects  at  the  court 
of  Corinth. 

I. 

Look  not  upon  me  thus  impatiently, 

Ye  children  of  the  deep  ; 
My  fingers  fail,  and  tremble  as  they  try 

To  stir  the  silver  sleep  with  song, 
Which  underneath  the  surge  ye  sweep, 
These  lulled  and  listless  chords  must  keep — 

Alas — how  long  ! 

II. 

The  salt  sea  wind  has  touched  my  harp  ;  its  thrill 
Follows  the  passing  plectrum,  low  and  chill, 
Woe  for  the  wakened  pulse  of  Ocean's  breath, 
That  injures  these  with  silence — me  with  death. 
Oh  wherefore  stirred  the  wind  on  Pindu's  chain, 
When  joyful  morning  called  me  to  the  main  ? 
Flashed  the  keen  oars — our  canvas  filled  and  free, 
Shook  like  white  fire  along  the  purple  sea, 


192  THE   LAST   SONG    OF   ARION. 

Fast  from  the  helm  the  shattering  surges  flew, 
Pale  gleamed  our  path  along  their  cloven  blue  ; 
And  orient  path,  wild  wind  and  purple  wave, 
Pointed  and  urged  and  guided  to  the  grave. 

III. 

Ye  winds  !  by  far  Methymna's  steep, 

I  loved  your  voices  long, 
And  gave  your  spirits  power  to  keep 

Wild  syllables  of  song, 
When,  folded  in  the  crimson  shade 

That  veils  Olympus'  cloud-like  whiteness, 
The  slumber  of  your  life  was  laid 

In  the  lull  of  its  own  lightness, 
Poised  on  the  voiceless  ebb  and  flow 
Of  the  beamy-bil lowed  summer  snow, 
Still  at  my  call  ye  came — 
Through  the  thin  wreaths  of  undulating  flame 
That  panting  in  their  heavenly  home, 
Willi  crimson  shadows  flush  the  foam 
Of  Adramyttium,  round  the  ravined  hill. 
Awakened  with  onp  deep  and  living  thrill, 


THE    LAST   SONG    OF    ARION".  103 

Ye  came  and  with  your  steep  descent, 
The  hollow  forests  waved  and  bent, 

Their  leaf-lulled  echoes  caught  the  winding  call. 
Through  incensed  glade  and  rosy  dell, 
Mixed  with  the  breath -like  pause  and  swell 

Of  waters  following  in  eternal  fall, 
In  azure  waves,  that  just  betray 
The  music  quivering  in  their  spray 
Beneath  its  silent  seven-fold  arch  of  day 

High  in  pale  precipices  hung 

The  lifeless  rocks  of  rigid  marble  rung, 
"Waving  the  cedar  crests  along  their  brows  sublime, 

Swift  ocean  heard  beneath,  and  flung 
His  tranced  and  trembling  waves  in  measured  time 
Along  his  golden  sands  with  faintly  falling  chime. 

IV. 

Alas  !  had  ye  forgot  the  joy  I  gave, 

That  ye  did  hearken  to  my  call  this  day  ? 

Oh  !  had  ye  slumbered — when  your  sleep  could  save, 
I  would  have  fed  you  with  sweet  sound  for  aye, 
Now  ye  have  risen  to  bear  my  silent  soul  away. 


194  THE  LAST   SONG   OF   ARIOX. 


I  heard  ye  murmur  through  the  Etnsen  caves, 

When  joyful  dawn  had  touched  the  topmost  dome, 
I  saw  ye  light  along  the  mountain  waves 

Far  to  the  east,  your  beacon  fires  of  foam, 
And  deemed  ye  rose  to  bear  your  weary  minstrel  home. 
Home  ?  it  shall  be  that  home  indeed, 
Where  tears  attend  and  shadows  lead 

The  steps  of  man's  return  ; 
Home  !  woe  is  me,  no  home  I  need, 

Except  the  urn. 
Behold — beyond  these  billows'  flow, 
I  see  Methymna's  mountains  glow  ; 
Long,  long  desired,  their  peaks  of  light 
Flash  on  my  sickened  soul  and  sight, 
And  heart  and  eye  almost  possess 
Their  vales  of  long  lost  pleasantness  ; 
But  eye  and  heart,  before  they  greet 
That  land,  shall  cease  to  burn  and  beat. 
I  see,  between  the  sea  and  land, 
The  winding  belt  of  golden  sand  ; 


THE    LAST   SONG    OF   ARION.  195 

But  never  may  my  footsteps  reach 
The  brightness  of  that  Lesbian  beach, 

Unless,  with  pale  and  listless  limb, 
Stretched  by  the  water's  utmost  brim, 
Xaked,  beneath  my  native  sky, 
With  bloodless  brow,  and  darkened  eye, 
An  unregarded  ghastly  heap, 
For  bird  to  tear  and  surge  to  sweep, 
Too  deadly  calm — too  coldly  weak 
To  reck  of  billow,  or  of  beak. 

VI. 

My  native  isle  !     When  I  have  been 

Reft  of  my  love,  and  far  from  thee 
My  dreams  have  traced,  my  soul  hath  seen 

Thy  shadow  on  the  sea, 
And  waked  in  joy,  but  not  to  seek 
Thy  winding  strand,  or  purple  peak. 
For  strand  and  peak  had  waned  away 
Before  the  desolating  day, 

On  Aero-Corinth  redly  risen, 


191)  THE   LAST   SONG   OF   AKIOX. 

That  burned  above  iEgina's  bay, 

And  laughed  upon  my  palace  prison. 
How  soft  on  other  eyes  it  shone, 
When  light,  and  land,  were  all  their  own, 
I  looked  across  the  eastern  brine, 
I  knew  that  morning  was  not  mine. 

VII. 

But  thou  art  near  me  now,  dear  isle  ! 
And  I  can  see  the  lightning  smile 
By  thy  broad  beach,  that  flashes  free 
Along  the  pale  lips  of  the  sea. 
Near,  nearer,  louder,  breaking,  beating, 

The  billows  fall  with  ceaseless  shower  ; 
It  comes, — dear  isle  ! — our  hour  of  meeting- 

Oh  God  !  across  the  soft  eyes  of  the  hour 
Is  thrown  a  black  and  blinding  veil  ; 
Its  steps  are  swift,  its  brow  is  pale, 
Before  its  face,  behold — there  stoop, 
From  their  keen  wings,  a  darkening  troop 
Of  forms  like  unto  it — that  fade 
Far  in  unfathomable  shade, 


THE   LAST   SONG   OF^CKTON.  197 

Confused,  and  limitless,  and  hollow, 

It  comes,  but  there  are  none  that  follow, — 

It  pauses,  as  they  paused,  but  not 

Like  them  to  pass  away, 
For  I  must  share  its  shadowy  lot, 
And  walk  with  it,  where  wide  and  grey, 
That  caverned  twilight  chokes  the  day, 
And,  underneath  the  horizon's  starless  line, 
Shall  drink,  like  feeble  dew,  its  life  and  mine. 

VIII. 

Farewell,  sweet  harp  !  for  lost  and  quenched 

Thy  swift  and  sounding  fire  shall  be  ; 
And  these  faint  lips  be  mute  and  blenched, 

That  once  so  fondly  followed  thee. 
Oh  !   deep  within  the  winding  shell 
The  slumbering  passions  haunt  and  dwell, 
As  memories  of  its  ocean  tomb 
Still  gush  within  its  murmuring  gloom  ; 
But  closed  the  lips  and  faint  the  fingers 

Of  fiery  touch,  and  woven  words, 


198  THE   LAST   SONG   OF   ARION. 

To  rouse  the  flame  that  clings  and  lingers 
Alonsf  the  loosened  chords. 

o 

Farewell  !  thou  diver-sounding  lute, 
I  must  not  wake  thy  wildness  more, 

When  I  and  thou  lie  dead,  and  mute, 
Upon  the  hissing  shore. 

IX. 

The  sounds  I  summon  fall  and  roll 
In  waves  of  memory  o'er  my  soul ; 
And  there  are  words  I  should  not  hear, 
That  murmur  in  my  dying  ear, 
Distant  all,  but  full  and  clear. 
Like  a  child's  footstep  in  its  fear, 

Falling  in  Colono's  wood 
When  the  leaves  are  sere  ; 

And  waves  of  black,  tumultuous  blood 
Heave  and  gush  about  my  heart, 

Each  a  deep  and  dismal  mirror 
Flashing  back  its  broken  part 

Of  visible,  and  changeless  terror  ; 


THE   LAST   SONG    OF   ARION.  199 

And  fiery  foam-globes  leap  and  shiyer 
Along  that  crimson,  living  river  ; 

Its  surge  is  hot,  its  banks  are  black, 
And  weak,  wild  thoughts  that  once  were  bright, 
And  dreams,  and  hopes  of  dead  delight, 

Drift  on  its  desolating  track, 
And  lie  along  its  shore  : 

Oh  !  who  shall  give  that  brightness  back, 
Or  those  lost  hopes  restore  ? 

Or  bid  that  light  of  dreams  be  shed 

On  the  glazed  eye-balls  of  the  dead  ? 


That  light  of  dreams  !  my  soul  hath  cherished 
One  dream  too  fondly,  and  too  long, 

Hope — dread — desire — delight  have  perished, 
And  every  thought  whose  voice  was  strong 
To  curb  the  heart  to  good  or  wrong  ; 

But  that  sweet  dream  is  with  me  still 

Like  the  shade  of  an  eternal  hill, 
Cast  on  a  calm  and  narrow  lake, 


200  THE   LAST   SONG   OF   ARIOX. 

That  hath  no  room  except  for  it — and  heaven  : 

It  doth  not  leave  me,  nor  forsake  ; 
And  often  with  my  soul  hath  striven 
To  quench  or  calm  its  worst  distress, 
Its  silent  sense  of  loneliness. 

And  must  it  leave  me  now  ? 
Alas  !  dear  lady,  where  my  steps  must  tread, 

What  veils  the  echo  or  the  glow 
That  word  can  leave,  or  smile  can  shed, 
Among  the  soundless,  lifeless  dead  ? 
Soft  o'er  my  brain  the  lulling  dew  shall  fall, 
While  I  sleep  on,  beneath  the  heavy  sea, 
Coldly, — I  shall  not  hear  though  thou  shouldst  calL 
Deeply, — I  shall  not  dream, — not  e'en  of  thee. 

XI. 

And  when  my  thoughts  to  ])eace  depart 

Beneath  the  unpeaceful  foam, 
Wilt  thou  remember  him,  whose  heart 

Hath  ceased  to  be  thy  home  ? 
Nor  bid  thy  breast  its  love  subdue 
For  one  no  longer  fond  nor  true ; 


THE   LAST   SONG    OF   ARION".  201 

Thine  ears  have  heard  a  treacherous  tale, 
My  words  were  false, — my  faith  was  frail. 
I  feel  the  grasp  of  death's  white  hand 

Laid  heavy  on  my  hrow, 
And  from  the  brain  those  fingers  brand, 
The  chords  of  memory  drop  like  sand, 
And  faint  in  muffled  murmurs  die, 
The  passionate  word,  the  fond  reply, 

The  deep  redoubled  vow. 
Oh  !  dear  Ismene  flushed  and  bright, 

Although  thy  beauty  burn, 
It  cannot  wake  to  love's  delight 
The  crumbling  ashes  quenched  and  white, 
Nor  pierce  the  apathy  of  night 

Within  the  marble  urn  : 
Let  others  weafthe  chains  I  wore, 

And  worship  at  the  unhonored  shrine — 
For  me,  the  chain  is  strong  no  more, 

No  more  the  voice  divine  : 
Go  forth,  and  look  on  those  that  live, 
And  robe  thee  with  the  love  they  give, 

But  think  no  more  of  mine  ; 


202  THE    LAST   SONG    OF   ARIOX. 

Or  think  of  all  that  pass  thee  by, 
With  heedless  heart  and  unveiled  eye, 
That  none  can  love  thee  less  than  I. 

XII. 

Farewell  ;  but  do  not  grieve  ;  thy  pain 

Would  seek  me  where  I  sleep, 
Thy  tears  would  pierce  like  rushing  rain, 

The  stillness  of  the  deep. 

Remember,  if  thou  wilt,  but  do  not  weep. 
Farewell,  beloved  hills,  and  native  isle. 
Farewell  to  earth's  delight  to  heaven's  smile  ; 
Farewell  to  sounding  air,  to  purple  sea  ; 
Farewell  to  light, — to  life, — to  love,— to  thee. 


THE  HILLS  OF  CARRARA.* 

i. 

Amidst  a  vale  of  springing  leaves, 

Where  spreads  the  vine  its  wandering  root, 
And  cumbrous  fall  the  autumnal  sheaves, 
And  olives  shed  their  sable  fruit, 
And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  never  mute, 
Make  of  young  boughs  and  pebbles  pure 

One  universal  lute, 
And  bright  birds,  through  the  myrtle  copse  obscure, 
Pierce  with  quick  notes,  and  plumage  dipped  in  dew, 
The  silence  and  the  shade  of  each  lulled  avenue. 

ii. 

Far  in  the  depths  of  voiceless  skies, 

Where  calm  and  cold  the  stars,  are  strewed, 

*  The  mountains  of  Carrara,  from  which  nearly  all  the  marble  now 
used  in  sculpture  is  derived,  form  by  far  the  finest  piece  of  hill  scenery 
I  know  in  Italy.  They  rise  out  of  valleys  of  exquisite  richness,  being 
themselves  singularly  desolate,  magnificent  in  form  and  noble  in  eleva- 
tion, but  without  forests  on  their  flanks  and  without  one  blade  of  grass 
on  their  summits.  203 


204  TIIE    KILLS   OF   CABBABA. 

The  peaks  of  pale  Carrara  rise. 

Nor  sound  of  storm,  nor  whirlwind  rude, 
Can  break  their  chill  of  marble  solitude  ; 

The  crimson  lightnings  round  their  crest 
May  hold  their  fiery  feud — 

They  hear  not,  nor  reply  ;  their  chasmed  rest 
No  flowret  decks,  nor  herbage  green,  nor  breath 
Of  moving  thing  can  change  their  atmosphere  of  death. 

in. 

But  far  beneath,  in  folded  sleep, 
Faint  forms  of  heavenly  life  arc  laid, 

With  pale  brows  and  soft  eyes,  that  keep 
Sweet  peace  of  unawakened  shade, 

"Whose  wreathed  limbs,  in  robes  of  rock  arrayed, 
Fall  like  white  waves  on  human  thought, 

In  fitful  dreams  displayed; 
Deep  through  their  secret  homes  of  slumber  sought, 
They  rise  immortal,  children  of  the  day, 
Gleaming  with  godlike  forms  on  earth,  and  her  decay. 


THE   HILLS   OF    CARRARA.  205 

IV. 

Yes,  where  the  bud  hath  brightest  germ, 

And  broad  the  golden  blossoms  glow, 
There  glides  the  snake  and  works  the  worm 

And  black  the  earth  is  laid  below. 
Ah  !  think  not  thou  the  souls  of  men  to  know ; 

By  outward  smiles  in  wildness  worn  ; 
The  words  that  jest  at  woe 

Spring  not  less  lightly,  though  the  heart  be  torn, 
The  mocking  heart,  that  scarcely  dares  confess 
Even  to  itself,  the  strength  of  its  own  bitterness. 
Nor  deem  that  they  whose  words  are  cold, 

Whose  brows  are  dark,  have  hearts  of  steel, 
The  couchant  strength,  untraced,  untold, 

Of  thoughts  they  keep  and  throbs  they  feel, 

May  need  an  answering  music  to  unseal, 
Who  knows  what  waves  may  stir  the  silent  sea, 

Beneath  the  low  appeal 
From  distant  shores,  of  winds  unfelt  by  thee  ? 
What  sounds  may  wake  within  the  winding  shell, 
Responsive  to  the  charm  of  those  who  touch  it  well ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MONTENOTTE. 

My  patent  of  nobility "  (said  Napoleon)  "dates  from  the  Battle  of 
Montenotte." 


Slow  lifts  the  night  her  starry  host 

Above  the  mountain  chain 
That  guards  the  grey  Ligurian  coast, 

And  lights  the  Lombard  plain  ; 

That  plain,  that  softening  on  the  sigh 

Lies  blue  beneath  the  balm  of  night, 

"With  lapse  of  rivers  lulled,  that  glide 

In  lustre  broad  of  living  tide, 

Or  pause  for  hours  of  peace  beside 

The  shores  they  double,  and  divide, 

To  feed  with  heaven's  reverted  hue 

The  clustered  vine's  expanding  blue  : 

206 


THE   BATTLE   OF    MOSTENOTTE.  201 

With  crystal  flow,  for  evermore, 
They  lave  a  blood-j)olluted  shore  ; 
Ah  !  not  the  snows,  whose  wreaths  renew 
Their  radiant  depth  with  stainless  dew, 
Can  bid  their  banks  be  pure,  or  bless 
The  guilty  land  with  holiness. 

ii. 

In  stormy  waves,  whose  wrath  can  reach 
The  rocks  that  back  the  topmost  beach, 
The  midnight  sea  falls  wild  and  deep 
Around  Savona's  marble  steep, 

And  Voltri's  crescent  bay. 
What  fiery  lines  are  these,  that  flash 
Where  fierce  the  breakers  curl  and  crash, 

And  fastest  flies  the  spray  ? 
No  moon  has  risen  to  mark  the  night, 
Nor  such  the  flakes  of  phosphor  light 
That  wake  along  the  southern  wave, 
By  Baiae's  cliff  and  Capri's  cave, 

Until  the  dawn  of  day  : 


208  THE   BATTLE    OF   MONTENOTTE. 

The  phosphor  flame  is  soft  and  green 
Beneath  the  hollow  surges  seen  ; 
But  these  are  dyed  with  dusky  red 
Far  on  the  fitful  surface  shed  ; 
And  evermore,  their  glance  between, 
The  mountain  gust  is  deeply  stirred 
With  low  vibration,  felt,  and  heard, 
Which  winds  and  leaves  confuse,  in  vain, 
It  gathers  through  their  maze  again, 
Redoubling  round  the  rocks  it  smote, 
Till  falls  in  fear  the  night-bird's  note, 
And  every  sound  beside  is  still, 
But  plash  of  torrent  from  the  hill. 
And  murmur  by  the  branches  made 
That  bend  above  its  bright  cascade. 

in. 

Hark,  hark  !  the  hollow  Apennine 

Laughs  in  his  heart  afar  ; 
Through  all  his  vales  he  drinks  like  wine 

The  deepening  draught  of  war  ; 


THE   BATTLE   OF   MONTENOTTE. 

For  not  with  doubtful  burst,  or  slow, 
That  thunder  shakes  his  breathless  snow, 
But  ceaseless  rends,  with  rattling  stroke, 
The  veils  of  white  volcano-smoke 
That  o'er  Legino's  ridges  rest, 

And  writhe  in  Merla's  vale  : 
There  lifts  the  Frank  his  triple  crest, 

Crowned  with  its  plumage  pale, 
Though,    clogged     and     dyed     with     stains     of 

death, 
It  scarce  obeys  the  tempest's  breath, 
And  darker  still,  and  deadlier  press 
The  war-clouds  on  its  weariness. 
Far  by  the  bright  Bormida's  banks 
The  Austrian  cheers  his  chosen  ranks, 
In  ponderous  waves,  that,  where  they  check 
Rise  o'er  their  own  tumultuous  wreck, 
Recoiling— crashing — gathering  still 
In  rage  around  that  Island  hill, 

Where  stand  the  moveless  Few — 
Few — fewer  as  the  moments  flit  ; 


210  THE    BATTLE    OF    MOXTENOTTE. 

Though  shaft  and  shell  their  columns  split 

As  morning  melts  the  dew, 
Though  narrower  yet  their  guarding  grows, 
And  hot  the  heaps  of  carnage  close, 
In  death's  faint  shade  and  fiery  shock, 
They  stand,  one  ridge  of  living  rock, 
Which  steel  may  rend,  and  wave  may  wear, 
And  bolt  may  crush,  and  blast  may  tear, 

But  none  can  strike  from  its  abiding. 
The  flood,  the  flash,  the  steel,  may  bear 
Perchance  destruction — not  despair. 

And  death — but  not  dividing. 
What  matter  ?  while  their  ground  they  keep, 
Though  here  a  column — there  an  heap — 
Though  these  in  wrath — and  those  in  sleep, 

If  all  are  there. 

IV. 

Charge,  D'Argenteau  !     Fast  flies  the  night, 
The  snows  look  wan  with  inward  light  : 
Charge,  D'Argenteau  !     Thy  kingdom's  power 
Wins  not  again  this  hope,  nor  hour  : 


THE   BATTLE   OF   MONTEXOTTE.  211 

The  force — the  fate  of  France  is  thrown 

Behind  those  feeble  shields, 
That  ridge  of  death-defended  stone 

Were  worth  a  thousand  fields  ! 
In  vain — in  vain  !     Thy  broad  array 
Breaks  on  their  front  of  spears  like  spray 
Thine  hour  hath  struck — the  dawning  red 
Is  o'er  thy  wavering  standards  shed  ; 
A  darker  dye  thy  folds  shall  take 
Before  its  utmost  beams  can  break. 


v. 

Out  of  its  Eastern  fountains 

The  river  of  day  is  drawn, 
And  the  shadows  of  the  mountains 

March  downward  from  the  dawn, — 
The  shadows  of  the  ancient  hills 

Shortening  as  they  go, 
Down  beside  the  dancing  rills 

Wearily  and  slow. 


212  THE   BATTLE    OF   MOXTEXOTTE. 

The  morning  wind  the  mead  hath  kissed  ; 

It  leads  in  narrow  lines 
The  shadows  of  the  silver  mist, 

To  pause  among  the  pines. 
But  where  the  sun  is  calm  and  hot, 

And  where  the  wind  hath  peace, 
There  is  a  shade  that  pause th  not, 

And  a  sound  that  doth  not  cease. 
The  shade  is  like  a  sable  river 

Broken  with  sparkles  bright ; 
The  sound  is  like  dead  leaves  that  shiver 

In  the  decay  of  night. 

VI. 

Together  came  with  pulse-like  beat 

The  darkness,  and  the  tread  ; 
A  motion  calm — a  murmur  sweet, 

Yet  deathful  both,  and  dread  ; 
Poised  en  the  hill,  a  fringed  shroud, 

It  wavered  like  the  sea, 
Then  clove  itself,  as  doth  a  cloud, 

In  sable  columns  three. 


THE    BATTLE  OF   MONTENOTTE.  213 

They  fired  no  shot — they  gave  no  sign, — 

They  blew  no  battle  peal, 
But  down  they  came,  in  deadly  line, 

Like  whirling  bars  of  steel. 
As  fades  the  forest  from  its  place, 

Beneath  the  lava-  flood, 
The  Austrian  host,  before  their  face, 

Was  melted  into  blood  : 
They  moved,  as  moves  the  solemn  night, 

With  lulling,  and  release, 
Before  them,  all  was  fear  and  flight, 

Behind  them,  all  was  peace  : 
Before  them  flashed  the  roaring  glen 

With  bayonet  and  brand  ; 
Behind  them  lay  the  wrecks  of  men, 

Like  sea-weed  on  the  sand. 

VII. 

But  still,  along  the  cumbered  heath, 

A  vision  strange  and  fair 
Did  fill  the  eyes  that  failed  in  death, 

And  darkened  in  despair  ; 


214  THE    BATTLE   OF   MONTENOTTE. 

Where  blazed  the  battle  wild  and  hot 
A  youth,  deep-eyed  and  pale, 

Did  more  amidst  the  storm  of  shot, 
As  the  fire  of  God  through  hail, 

He  moved,  serene  as  spirits  are, 
And  dying  eyes  might  see 

Above  his  head  a  crimson  star 

Burning  continually. 
******* 

VIII. 

With  bended  head,  and  breathless  tread. 
The  traveller  tracks  that  silent  shore, 
Oppressed  with  thoughts  that  seek  the  dead, 

nd  visions  that  restore, 
Or  lightly  trims  his  pausing  bark, 
Where  lies  the  ocean  lulled  and  dark, 
Beneath  the  marble  mounds  that  stay 
The  strength  of  many  a  bending  bay, 
And  lace  with  silver  lines  the  flow 
Of  tideless  waters  to  and  fro, 
As  drifts  the  breeze,  or  dies. 


THE    BATTLE    OF    MONTENOTTE.  215 

That  scarce  recalls  its  lightness,  left 
In  many  a  purple-curtained  cleft, 
Whence  to  the  softly  lighted  skies 
Low  flowers  lift  up  their  dark  blue  eyes, 
To  bring  by  fits  the  deep  perfume 
Alternate,  as  the  bending  bloom 

Diffuses  or  denies. 
Above,  the  slopes  of  mountain  shine, 
Where  glows  the  citron,  glides  the  vine, 
And  breathes  the  myrtle  wildly  bright, 
And  aloes  lift  their  lamps  of  light, 
And  ceaseless  sunbeams  clothe  the  calm 
Of  orbed  pine  and  vaulted  palm, 
Dark  trees,  that  sacred  order  keep, 
And  rise  in  temples  o'er  the  steep — 
Eternal  shrines,  whose  columned  shade 

Though  winds  may  shake,  and  frosts  may  fade, 

And  dateless  years  subdue, 
Is  softly  builded,  ever  new, 

By  angel  hands,  and  wears  the  dread 

And  stillness  of  a  sacred  place, 


216  THE    BATTLE    OF    MOXTEXOTTE. 

A  sadness  of  celestial  grace, 
A  shadow,  God-inhabited. 

IX. 

And  all  is  peace,  around,  above, 
The  air  all  balm — the  light  all  love, 
Enduring  love,  that  burns  and  broods 
Serenely  o'er  these  solitudes, 
Or  pours  at  intervals  a  part 
Of  Heaven  upon  the  wanderer's  heart, 
Whose  subject  soul  and  quiet  thought 
Are  open  to  be  touched  or  taught, 
By  mute  address  of  bud  and  beam 
Of  purple  peak  and  silver  stream — 
By  sounds  that  fall  at  nature's  choice, 
And  things  whose  being  is  their  voice, 
Innumerable  tongues  that  teacli 

The  will  and  ways  of  God  to  men, 
In  Avaves  that  beat  the  lonely  beach, 

And  winds  that  haunt  the  homeless  glen, 
Where  they,  who  ruled  the  rushing  deep, 

The  restless  and  the  brave. 


THE   BATTLE   OF   MONTENOTTE.  £17 

Have  left  along  their  native  steep 
The  ruin,  and  the  grave. 

x. 

And  he  who  gazes  while  the  day 
Departs  along  the  boundless  bay, 
May  find  against  its  fading  streak 
The  shadow  of  a  single  peak, 

Seen  only  when  the  surges  smile, 
And  all  the  heaven  is  clear, 

That  sad  and  solitary  isle.* 
Where,  captive,  from  his  red  career, 
He  sank — who  shook  the  hemisphere, 

Then,  turning  from  the  hollow  sea, 
May  trace,  across  the  crimsoned  height 

That  saw  his  earliest  victory, 
The  purple  rainbow's  resting  light, 
And  the  last  lines  of  storm  that  fade 
Within  the  peaceful  evening-shade. 

*  Elba. 


218  THE   BATTLE   OF   MOXTENOTTE. 

NOTES. 

Stanza  3. — Line  9. 
That  o'er  Legino' s  ridges  rest. 

The  Austrian  centre,  10,000  strong,  had  been  advanced  to  Monte- 
notte  in  order,  if  possible,  to  cut  asunder  the  French  force  which  was 
following  the  route  of  theCorniche.  It  encountered  at  Montenotte,  only 
Colonel  Rampon,  at  the  head  of  1,200  men,  who,  retiring  to  the  redoubt 
at  Monte  Legino,  defended  it  against  the  repeated  attacks  of  the  Aus- 
trians  until  nightfall— making  his  soldiers  swear  to  conquer  or  die. 
The  Austrian  General  Roccavina  was  severely  wounded,  and  his  suc- 
cessor, D'Argenteau,  refused  to  continue  the  attack.  Napoleon  was 
lying  at  Savona,  but  set  out  after  sunset  with  the  divisions  of  Massena 
and  Serruier,  and  occupied  the  heights  at  Montenotte.  At  daybreak 
the  Imperialists  found  themselved  surrounded  on  all  sides,  and  were 
totally  defeated,  with  the  loss  of  two  thousand  prisoners,  and  above 
one  thousand  killed  and  wounded.     [April  12,  179G.] 

This  victory,  the  first  gained  by  Napoleon,  was  the  foundation  of  the 
success  of  the  Italian  campaign.  Had  Colonel  Rampon  been  compelled 
to  retire  from  Monte  Legino.  the  fate  of  the  world  would  probably 
have  been  changed.— Vide  Alison,  eh.  20. 

Stanza  7.— Line  6. 

Wliere  lies  the  ocean  lulled  and  dark. 

The  view  given  in  the  engraving,  though  not  near  the  scene  of  the 
battle,  is  very  characteristic  of  the  general  features  of  the  coast.  The 
ruins  in  the  centre  are  the  Chateau  de  Comolet.  near  Mcntoni  ;  the 
sharp  dark  promontoiy  running  out  beyond,  to  the  left,  is  the  Capo  St. 
Martin  ;   that  beyond  it  is  the  promontory  of   Monaco.     Behind   the 


THE    BATTLE    OF    MOXTENOTTE.  219 

hills,  on  the  right,  lies  the  Bay  of  Nice  and  the  point  of  Antibcs.  The 
dark  hills  in  the  extreme  distance  rise  immediately  above  Frejus. 
Among  them  winds  the  magnificent  Pass  de  L'Esterelle,  which,  for 
richness  of  southern  forest  scenery,  and  for  general  grace  of  mountain 
outline,  surpasses  anything  on  the  Corniche  itself. 

Stanza  9. — Line  7. 

That  solitary  isle. 

Elba  is  said  to  be  visible  from  most  of  the  elevated  points  of  this 
coast.  From  the  citadel  of  Genoa  I  have  seen  what  was  asserted  to  be 
Elba.     I  believe  it  to  have  been  Corsica. 


A  WALK  IN  CHAMOUNI. 

Together  on  the  valley,  white  and  sweet, 

The  dew  and  silence  of  the  morning  lay  : 
Only  the  tread  of  my  disturbing  feet 
Did  break  with  printed  shade  and  patient  beat 

The  crisped  stillness  of  the  meadow  way  ; 
And  frequent  mountain  waters,  welling  up 

In  crystal  gloom  beneath  some  mouldering  stone, 
Curdled  in  many  a  flower-enamelled  cup 

Whose  soft  and  purple  border,  scarcely  blown. 

Budded  beneath  their  touch,  and  trembled  to  their  tone. 

The  fringed  branches  of  the  swinging  pines 

Closed  o'er  my  path ;  a  darkness  in  the  sky, 
That  barred  its  dappled  vault  with  rugged  lines> 
And  silver  network,* — interwoven  signs 

*  The  white  mosses  on  the  meleze,  when  the  tree  is  very  old,  are  sin- 
gularly beautiful,  resembling  frost-work  of  silver. 


A    WALK   IN    CUAMOUNI.  221 

Of  dateless  age  and  deathless  infancy  ; 
Then  through  their  aisles  a  motion  and  a  brightness 

Kindled  and  shook— the  weight  of  shade  they  bore 
On  their  broad  arms,  was  lifted  by  the  lightness 

Of  a  soft,  shuddering  wind,  and  what  they  wore 

Of  jewelled  dew,  was  strewed  about  the  forest  floor. 
That  thrill  of  gushing  wind  and  glittering  rain 

Onward  amid  the  woodland  hollows  went, 
And  bade  by  turns  the  drooping  boughs  complain 
O'er  the  brown  earth,  that  drank  in  lightless  stain 

The  beauty  of  their  burning  ornament ; 
And  then  the  roar  of  an  enormous  river 

Came  on  the  intermittent  air  uplifted, 
Broken  with  haste,  I  saw  its  sharp  waves  shiver, 

And  its  wild  weight  in  white  disorder  drifted, 

Where  by  its  beaten  shore  the  rocks  lay  heaped  and  rifted. 

But  yet  unshattered,  from  an  azure  arch* 

Came  forth  the  nodding  waters,  wave  by  wave, 


*  Source  of  the  Arveron. 


222  A    WALK   IN    CHAMOUXT. 

In  silver  lines  of  modulated  march, 

Through  a  broad  desert,  which  the  frost-winds  parch 

Like  fire,  and  the  resounding  ice-falls  pave 
With  pallid  ruin — wastes  of  rock — that  share 

Earth's  calm  and  ocean's  fruitlessness.* — Undone 
The  work  of  ages  lies, — through  whose  despair 

Their  swift  procession  dancing  in  the  sun, 

The  white  and  whirling  waves  pass  mocking  one  by  one. 

And  with  their  voice — unquiet  melody- 
Is  filled  the  hollow  of  their  mighty  portal, 

As  shells  are  with  remembrance  of  the  sea  ; 

So  might  the  eternal  arch  of  Eden  be 

With  angels'  wail  for  those  whose  crowns  immortal 

The  grave-dust  dimmed  in  passing.     There  arc  here, 
With  azure  wings,  and  scymitars  of  lire, 

Forms  as  of  Heaven,  to  guard  the  gate,  and  rear 
Their  burning  arms  afar, — a  boundless  choir 
Beneath  the  sacred  shafts  of  many  a  mountain  spire. 

*  7tapd  S/V  aAoS  LXTftvyiroio. — 1A1A&.    A' 


A    WALK    IX   CHAMOUXI.  223 

Countless  as  clouds,  dome,  prism,  and  pyramid 

Pierced  through  the  mist  of  morning  scarce  withdrawn, 
Signing  the  gloom  like  beacon  fires,  half  hid 
By  storm — part  quenched  in  billows — or  forbid 

Their  function  by  the  fullness  of  the  dawn  : 
And  melting  mists  and  threads  of  jxirple  rain 

Fretted  the  fair  sky  where  the  east  was  red, 
Gliding  like  ghosts  along  the  voiceless  plain, 

In  rainbow  hues  around  its  coldness  shed, 

Like  thoughts  of  loving  hearts  that  haunt  about  the  dead. 

And  over  these,  as  pure  as  if  the  breath 

Of  God  had  called  them  newly  into  light, 
Free  from  all  stamp  of  sin,  or  shade  of  death, 
With  which  the  old  creation  travaileth, 

Rose  the  white  mountains,  through  the  infinite 

Of  the  calm,  concave  heaven  ;  inly  bright 
With  lustre  everlasting  and  intense, 

Serene  and  universal  as  the  night, 
But  yet  more  solemn  with  pervading  sense 
Of  the  deep  stillness  of  omnipotence. 


224  A    WALK    1^  CHAMOUNI. 

Deep  stillness  !  for  the  throbs  of  human  thought, 
Count  not  the  lonely  night  that  pauses  here, 

And  the  white  arch  of  morning  findeth  not 

By  chasm  or  alp,  a  spirit,  or  a  spot, 

Its  call  can  waken,  or  its  beams  can  cheer  : 

There  are  no  eyes  to  watch,  no  lips  to  meet 
Its  messages  with  prayer — no  matin  bell 

Touches  the  delicate  air  with  summons  sweet ;  — 
That  smoke  was  of  the  avalanche  ;  *  that  knell 
Came  from  a  tower  of  ice  that  into  fragments  fell. 

Ah  !  why  should  that  be  comfortless — why  cold, 

Which  is  so  near  to  Heaven  ?     The  lowly  earth 
Out  of  the  blackness  of  its  charnel  mould 
Feeds  its  fresh  life,  and  lights  its  banks  with  gold ; 
But  these  proud  summits,  in  eternal  dearth, 
Whose  solitudes  nor  mourning  know,  nor  mirth, 


*  The  vapor  or  dust  of  dry  snow  which  rises  after  the  fall  of  a  large 
avalanche,  sometimes  looks  in  the  distance  not  unlike  the  smoke  of  a 
village. 


A    WALK   IN    CHAMOUNI.  225 

Rise  passionless  and  pure,  but  all  unblest  : 

Corruption — must  it  root  the  brightest  birth  ? 
And  is  the  life  that  bears  its  fruitage  best, 
One  neither  of  supremacy  nor  rest  ? 


THE  OLD  SEAMAN. 

i. 
You  ask  me  why  mine  eyes  are  bent 

So  darkly  on  the  sea, 
While  others  watch  the  azure  hills 

That  lengthen  on  the  lee. 

n. 
The  azure  hills — they  soothe  the  sight 

That  fails  along  the  foam  ; 
And  those  may  hail  their  nearing  height 

Who  there  have  hope,  or  home. 

in. 
But  I  a  loveless  path  have  trod — 

A  beaconless  career  ; 
My  hope  hath  long  been  all  with  God, 

And  all  my  home  is — here. 


THE   OLD   SEAMAN.  227 


IV. 

The  deep  by  day,  the  heaven  by  night, 
Eoll  onward  swift  and  dark  ; 

Nor  leave  my  soul  the  dove's  delight, 
Of  olive  branch,  or  ark. 

v. 
For  more  than  gale,  or  gulf,  or  sand, 

I've  proved  that  there  may  be 
Worse  treachery  on  the  steadfast  land, 

Than  variable  sea. 

VI. 

A  danger  worse  than  bay  or  beach— 
A  falsehood  more  unkind — 

The  treachery  of  a  governed  speech, 
And  an  un governed  mind. 

VII. 

The  treachery  of  the  deadly  mart 
Where  human  souls  are  sold  ; 

The  treachery  of  the  hollow  heart 
•That  crumbles  as  we  hold. 


228  THE   OLD   SEAMAN. 

VIII. 

Those  holy  hills  and  quiet  lakes — 
Ah  !  wherefore  should  I  find 

This  weary  fever-fit,  that  shakes 
Their  image  in  my  mind. 

IX. 

The  memory  of  a  streamlet's  din, 
Through  meadows  daisy-drest — 

Another  might  be  glad  therein, 
And  yet  I  cannot  rest. 

x. 
I  cannot  rest  unless  it  be 

Beneath  the  churchyard  yew  ; 
But  God,  I  think,  hath  yet  for  me 

More  earthly  work  to  do. 

XI. 

And  therefore  with  a  quiet  will, 
I  breathe  the  ocean  air. 

And  bless  the  voice  that  calls  me  still 
To  wander  and  to  bear. 


THE   OLD    SEAMAN.  2*>{) 


XII. 


Let  others  seek  their  native  sod, 
Who  there  have  hearts  to  cheer  ; 

My  soul  hath  long  been  given  to  God, 
And  all  my  home  is — here. 


THE  ALPS. 


SEEN    FROM    MARENGO. 


The  glory  of  a  cloud — without  its  wane  ; 

The  stillness  of  the  earth — but  not  its  gloom  ; 
The  loveliness  of  life — without  its  pain  ; 

The  peace — but  not  the  hunger  of  the  tomb  3 
Ye  Pyramids  of  God  !  around  whose  bases 

The  sea  foams  noteless  in  his  narrow  cup  ; 

And  the  unseen  movements  of  the  earth  send  up 
A  murmur  which  your  lulling  snow  effaces 
Like  the  deer's  footsteps.     Thrones  imperishable  ! 
About  whose  adamantine  steps  the  breath 
Of  dying  generations  vanisheth, 
Less  cognizable  than  clouds  ;  and  dynast  its. 

Less  glorious  and  more  feeble  than  the  array 

Of  your  frail  glaciers,  unregarded  rise, 

Totter  and  vanish.     In  the  uncounted  day, 

230 


THE   ALPS.  231 

When  earth  shall  tremble  as  the  trump  unwraps 

Their  sheets  of  slumber  from  the  crumbling  dead. 
And  the  quick,  thirsty  fire  of  judgment  laps 

The  loud  sea  from  the  hollow  of  his  bed — 
Shall  not  your  God  spare  you,  to  whom  He  gave 

No  share  nor  shadow  of  man's  crime,  or  fate  ; 

Nothing  to  render,  nor  to  expiate  ; 
Untainted  by  his  life — untrusted  with  his  grave  ? 


WRITTEN   AMONG   THE   BASSES  ALPS. 

[It  is  not  among  mountain  scenery  that  human  intellect  usually  takes 
its  finest  temper,  or  receives  its  highest  development ;  but  it  is  at  least 
there  that  we  find  a  consistent  energy  of  mind  and  body,  compelled 
by  severer  character  of  agencies  to  be  resisted  and  hardships  to  be 
endured;  and  it  is  there  that  we  must  seek  for  the  last  remnants  of 
patriarchal  simplicity  and  patriotic  affection— the  few  rock  fragments 
of  manly  character  that  are  yet  free  from  the  lichenous  stain  of  over- 
civilization.  It  must  always,  therefore,  be  with  peculiar  pain  that  we 
find,  as  in  the  district  to  which  the  following  verses  allude,  the  savage  - 
ness  and  seclusion  of  mountain  life,  without  its  force  and  faithfulness: 
and  all  the  indolence  and  sensuality  of  the  most  debased  cities  of 
Europe,  without  the  polish  to  disguise,  the  temptation  to  excuse,  or  the 
softness  of  natural  scenery  to  harmonize  with  them.] 

"  Why  stand  ye  here  all  the  day  idle  ? " 

Have  you  in  heaven  no  hope — on  earth  no  care — 
No  foe  in  hell — ye  things  of  stye  and  stall, 

That  congregate  like  flics,  and  make  the  air 
Rank  with  your  fevered  sloth — that  hourly  call 

The  sun,  which  should  your  servant  be,  to  bear 
Dread  witness  on  you,  with  uncounted  -wane 


WRITTEN    AMONG   THE   BASSES    ALPS.  233 

And  unregarded  rays,  from  peak  to  peak 

Of  piny-gnomoned  mountain  moved  in  vain  ? 
Behold,  the  very  shadows  that  ye  seek 

For  slumber,  write  along  the  wasted  wall 
Your  condemnation.     They  forget  not,  the}', 

Their  ordered  function  and  determined  fall, 
Nor  useless  perish.     But  you  count  your  day 
By  sins,  and  write  your  difference  from  clay 
In  bonds  you  break  and  laws  you  disobey. 
God  !  who  hast  given  the  rocks  their  fortitude, 
The  sap  unto  the  forests,  and  their  food 

And  vigor  to  the  busy  tenantry 

Of  happy  soulless  things  that  wait  on  Thee, 
Hast  Thou  no  blessing  where  Thou  gav'st  Thy  blood? 

Wilt  Thou  not  make  Thy  fair  creation  whole  ? 
Behold  and  visit  this  Thy  vine  for  good — 

Breathe  in  this  human  dust  its  living  soul. 


THE   GLACIER 

The  mountains  have  a  peace  which  none  disturb — 

The  stars  and  clouds  a  course  which  none  restrain — 
The  wild  sea-waves  rejoice  without  a  curb, 

And  rest  without  a  passion  ;  but  the  chain 
Of  Death,  upon  this  ghastly  cliff  and  chasm 

Is  broken  evermore,  to  bind  again, 

Nor  lulls  nor  looses.     Hark  !  a  voice  of  pain 
Suddenly  silenced  ; — a  quick  passing  spasm, 

That  startles  rest,  but  grants  not  liberty, — 

A  shudder,  or  a  struggle,  or  a  cry — 
And  then  sepulchral  stillness.     Look  on  us, 

God  !  who  hast  given  these  hills-  their  place  of  pride, 
If  Death's  captivity  be  sleepless  thus, 

For  those  who  sink  to  it  unsanctified. 


THE   RECREANT. 

In  an  attack  of  the  Athenians  upon  the  JEgineta?,  the  former  were 
cut  off,  with  the  exception  of  one  man,  who  went  home  to  tell  the  tale. 
He  was  met  in  the  street  of  the  city  by  a  group  of  Athenian  women, 
each  of  whom,  inquiring  where  he  had  left  her  husband,  wounded  him 
with  the  clasp  of  her  robe,  until  he  died. — Herod.  Terpsichore,  chap.  87. 

With  the  hills  of  their  fathers  around  them — 

The  heaven  of  their  country  above, — 
They  stood,  in  the  strength  of  their  manhood  ; 

They  went  in  the  light  of  our  love. 
In  the  pride  of  their  power  they  departed, 

Down  by  the  path  of  the  sea  : 
Dark  eyes  of  the  desolate-hearted 

Were  watching  for  them — and  for  thee  ! 

Who  comes  from  the  banquet  of  blood, 
Where  the  guests  are  as  still  as  a  stone  ? 

Who  dares  to  return  by  the  road 

Where  the  steps  of  his  joy  are  alone  ? 


23G  THE    RECREANT. 

They  were  bound  by  the  oath  of  the  free, — 
They  were  true  as  the  steel  that  they  bare, — 

They  were  true  to  themselves,  and  to  thee  ! 
Behold  !  thou  hast  left  them — and  where  ! 


Oh  !  well  has  their  triumph  been  told, 

In  the  time  of  its  terrible  crowning  ; 
Poor  recreant  !— kingly,  though  cold, 

Is  the  sleep  that  thou  durst  not  lie  down  in  ! 
The  swords  of  the  restless  are  rusted 

In  the  rest  that  thou  shrankest  to  share  : 
False  helot ! — to  whom  hast  thou  trusted 

The  pride  of  the  peaceful — and  where  ? 

For  thee,— who  wast  not  of  the  number 
That  sank  in  the  red  battle  shade, — 

Thy  name  shall  be  cursed  in  the  slumber 
Of  the  life  that  thy  baseness  betrayed  ! 

The  strength  of  the  tremorlese  tread 
Of  our  bravest,  our  love  can  resign, — 


THE    RECREANT.  23? 


But  tears,  as  of  blood,  shall  bo  shed 
For  the  dastard  returning  of  thine. 


But,  what  !  when  thy  soul  hath  not  hearkened 

To  the  charge  of  our  love,  or  our  fear, 
Shall  the  soft  eyes  of  Hellas  be  darkened 

By  the  thought  of  thy  birth,  or  thy  bier  ? 
The  strength  of  thy  shame  shall  requite  thee, — 

The  souls  of  the  lost  shall  not  see, — 
Mother  nor  maid  of  the  mighty 

Shed  tear  for  a  dastard  like  thee  ! 

J.  R. 


THE   WRECK. 

Its  masts  of  might — its  sails  so  free — 

Had  borne  the  scatheless  keel 
Through  many  a  day  of  darkened  sea, 

And  many  a  storm  of  steel ; 
When  all  the  winds  were  calm,  it  met 
(With  home-returning  prore) 
With  the  lull 
Of  the  waves 
On  a  low  lee  shore. 

The  crest  of  the  conqueror 
On  many  a  brow  was  bright ; 

The  dew  of  many  an  exile's  eye 
Had  dimmed  the  dancing  Bight ; 

And  for  love  and  for  victory, 


THE    WRECK.  239 


One  welcome  was  in  store — 

In  the  lull 

Of  the  waves 
On  a  low  lee  shore. 

The  voices  of  the  night  are  mute 

Beneath  the  moon's  eclipse  ; 
The  silence  of  the  fitful  flute 

Is  in  the  dying  lips  ! — 
The  silence  of  my  lonely  heart 
Is  kept  for  evermore — 
In  the  lull 
Of  the  waves 
On  a  low  lee  shore  t 


CHAKITIE. 

The  beams  of  morning  are  renew'd, 
The  valley  laughs  their  light  to  see  ; 

And  earth  is  bright  with  gratitude, 
And  heaven  with  Charitie. 

Oh,  dew  of  heaven  ;  oh,  light  of  earth  ! 

Fain  would  our  hearts  be  fill'd  with  thee, 
Because  nor  darkness  comes,  nor  dearth, 

About  the  home  of  Charitie. 

God  guides  the  stars  their  wandering  way, 
He  seems  to  cast  their  courses  free, 

But  birds  unto  himself  for  aye  : 
And  all  their  chains  are  Charitie. 

When  first  he  stretch'd  the  signed  zone, 
And  heap'd  the  hills, #and  barr'd  the  sen. 

Then  Wisdom  .sit  beside  his  throne, 
But  his  own  word  was  Charitie. 


CHARITIE.  2-il 

And  still,  through  every  age  and  hour, 
Of  things  that  were  and  things  that  be, 

Are  breathed  the  presence  and  the  power 
Of  everlasting  Charitie. 

By  noon  and  night,  by  sun  and  shower, 
By  dews  that  fall  and  winds  that  flee, 

On  grove  and  field,  on  fold  and  flower, 
Is  shed  the  peace  of  Charitie. 

The  violets  light  the  lonely  hill, 

The  fruitful  furrows  load  the  lea  ; 
Man's  heart  alone  is  sterile  still, 

For  lack  of  lowly  Charitie. 

He  walks  a  weary  vale  within — 

No  lamp  of  love  in  heart  hath  he  ; 
His  steps  are  death,  his  thoughts  are  sin, 

For  lack  of  gentle  Charitie. 

Daughter  of  Heaven  !  we  dare  not  lift 

The  dimness  of  our  eyes  to  thee  ; 
Oh  !  pure  and  God-descended  gift  ! 

Oli  !  spotless,  perfect  Charitie. 


242  CHARITIE. 

Yet  forasmuch  thy  brow  is  crost 

With  blood-drops  from  the  deathful  tree, 

We  take  thee  for  our  only  trust, 
Oh !  dying  Charitie. 

Ah  !  Hope,  Endurance,  Faith — ye  fail  like  death, 
But  Love  an  everlasting  crown  receive th  ; 

For  she  is  Hope,  and  Fortitude,  and  Faith, 
Who  all  things  hopeth,  beareth  and  believeth. 


rr^VoF  25  CENTS 
AN  INITIAL  FINE ,01 1*        rETOBN 

DAY     AND     TO     **■  __==== 

OVERDUE. 


~wro^^ 


LD21-l»0m" 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


BDDD^M^Bfl 


